


Dragon Through the Looking Glass

by mille_libri



Series: Dragon [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2018-09-18 14:29:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 69,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9389246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mille_libri/pseuds/mille_libri
Summary: Ren Trevelyan and the Iron Bull have been called out of retirement to attend the Exalted Council at Halamshiral. Reuniting with their old friends is fun at first, until a dead Qunari is found on the premises, with no idea how he got there. Face to face with his own people, the Iron Bull's loyalties will be tested, and the former Inquisitor must find out what's going on and determine the fate of the Inquisition.





	1. Message from the Inquisition

The pain woke Ren Trevelyan in the middle of the night, shooting out from the center of her left palm and stabbing down through her fingers. She held her breath, keeping her body as still as possible, as she stretched out her fingers in a vain attempt to alleviate the pain.

After a little while it subsided, the green sparks flying up from the mark in the center of her palm disappearing, and she let her hand, and then her body, relax. The quiet breathing next to her told her that she hadn’t awakened the Iron Bull, which she was glad of. This stabbing pain in her hand had occurred four or five times in the last few months, always unexpectedly. Ren was sure it would pass; and if it didn’t, there would be time to deal with it then. Telling the Iron Bull now would only worry him.

She shifted to her side, listening to the wind whistling around their little round clifftop house, and the waves crashing against the rocks far below at the base of the cliff, letting the familiar and well-loved sounds lull her to sleep.

They’d had nearly two years here, filling their days with swimming and hunting and fishing and running the Iron Bull’s mercenary company, the Chargers … although his second-in-command, Krem, did most of the grunt work there. 

Far to the south of them, the Inquisition was coming along nicely under the leadership of Inquisitor Robert Morris, but Ren no longer worked for the organization she had formerly commanded. The last time, the trip into the Deep Roads after the great Titan who was creating earthquakes all along the coast, had been enough for her, and she had let Morris know as much in no uncertain terms when they had finally reached the surface again. Since then, the occasional request for assistance arrived by raven and was ignored, and Ren went on about her life peacefully.

Although recently there had been more ravens. After the sixth one in a week, Ren had caved enough to read the note—a request for her attendance at a Conclave in Orlais. Since her lack of skill at politics was the reason she had stepped down from the post of Inquisitor in the first place, Ren hardly saw what they needed her for. Morris was better than she could ever have hoped to be when it came to dealing with foreign heads of state.

Content with her decision, she drifted off to sleep.

Next to her, the Iron Bull’s single eye opened, and he looked to his right—the movement awkward because his wide horns kept him from turning his head too far—with concern. His _kadan_ , his heart, was asleep again, for which he was grateful. The last time her hand had spasmed, she’d been awake for hours.

He thought he understood why she was keeping it from him; she was a woman who valued her independence and was stubborn as the day was long, to boot. But the mark on her hand, the Anchor that could open and close the Fade, was some weird shit, and anything unusual related to it freaked the Iron Bull out.

On his last trip to Denerim, he had done some discreet reading up on it, and had sent messages to some old friends, asking for what they knew. But unfortunately, the one who knew the most, the strange elf Solas, was long gone. He had disappeared two years ago when Corypheus was dead, and hadn’t been heard of since. Some really damned scary people had looked for him very hard, and had no luck, which said to the Iron Bull that if they ever heard from Solas again, it would be because he wanted to show up.

He sighed softly, not wanting to wake Morvoren again. She preferred the shortened form of her name, but he had been captivated by the music of it since before he had ever met her. It meant “mermaid”, and he had a thousand memories of her in the water, her body sliding against his. She truly was his mermaid, his enchanted creature come from the depths. It had been hard to reconcile the man who loved her and the man who was a devoted follower of the Qun, and he still struggled to meld the southern and northern halves of his personality together, but all in all he was happy with his choice, happy with her … and no more eager than she was to answer the call from Morris and rejoin the Inquisition. Still … if her hand kept sparking like that …

No point worrying about it again tonight, he told himself, and he allowed sleep to close in on him.

A week later, Ren was climbing the ladder up to their aerie when she saw a raven flutter past. Gritting her teeth at Morris’s persistence, she moved faster, wanting to catch the raven before the Iron Bull saw it.

He was standing at the door of the cabin, bird in hand, when she reached it. “Oh. Hey, _kadan_.”

In his hand she could see the message from the Inquisition, and she hastened to try to explain. “I know I should have told you they were trying to reach me, it’s just … I’m done with that, well, we are, and—“ She stopped talking as she realized that he wasn’t looking accusatory, or even curious. Instead, the expression on his face was almost … sheepish. “But you already knew that.”

“Uh … yeah.”

Ren groaned. “You didn’t tell him we’d go, did you?” If possible, his expression became even more sheepish. It would have been adorable if she wasn’t annoyed with him. “Why did you tell him we’d go to Orlais? Do you remember everything that happened the last time we were in Halamshiral?”

“I know, I know, but this Conclave is a big deal. Even Krem thought we should go.”

“You talked to Krem?!”

“Actually, he came to me. The Inquisitor wanted him and Flissa to talk you into it.”

“He did?” Morris had never gone that far before. “This Conclave is that important?”

The Iron Bull nodded. “Yeah, I guess it is. He’s got everyone, far as I can tell. Cassandra, Varric, Cole—he even found Sera.”

Ren frowned. “That sounds good—but why? What does he need us for?”

“I don’t know as much as I would have before I left the Qun, but I hear that Ferelden wants to shut down the Inquisition altogether—and Orlais wants to take it over.”

“They can’t do that! Either of them,” Ren flared. “Where were they when Corypheus needed killing? Where were they when I put down the rebellion in the Hinterlands and got the Venatori out of the Western Approach? I do all their dirty work for them and this is the thanks I get?”

The Iron Bull nodded slowly, grinning at her indignation. “And that’s why I told Morris we would go.” Then the grin faded from his face. He let go of the bird, who fluttered up to the top of the doorjamb, and came toward her, reaching for her left hand. He turned it gently over, holding it in both of his. “And this.”

She looked up into his eye, seeing all the concern there that she had been hoping to avoid. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

“I know, _kadan_.”

“But apparently I can’t hide anything from you.”

“Not something that wakes you up in pain in the middle of the night,” he agreed.

She tried to pull her hand out of his grasp. “It’ll be fine.”

“Yeah? How do you know?”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

He rolled his eye at that non-response. “I’ll feel better if I can have someone look at it.”

“Who? The only person who knew anything about it is long gone.”

The Iron Bull looked worried. “I know.”

“You’ve been looking for him?”

“Leliana has, and so has Fairbanks.” Fairbanks had taken over as Inquisition spymaster when Leliana became the Divine. “Neither of them has found any sign of him—or any sign he ever existed. It’s like he came out of nowhere.”

“The Dalish aren’t well documented, and they don’t like talking to humans. He probably was an outcast from one of their clans that they don’t want to admit to, or have written out of their memories.”

“That’s dwarves.”

“Humans have been known to cut people out of their lives and their wills, too,” she reminded him, thinking of her own father, who had disowned her completely when she left the Inquisition. It hadn’t been much of a loss, really—they’d never had a good relationship. “It stands to reason the Dalish have something similar. Even they must have black sheep occasionally.”

“Good point. I’ll ask Dalish.” One of the Chargers, a former apostate now avowed mage, Dalish ran many of the group’s operations now that both Krem and the Iron Bull were semi-retired. 

“Isn’t she still in Nevarra?”

“They’re meeting us at the Council. I thought we’d need the backup, and besides, they wanted to go.” He smiled. “I guess they miss the old days, too.”

Ren flushed slightly. “I don’t really miss the old days.”

“No, but you miss our friends, and so do I, and for that reason alone, we’re going.” He grinned widely. “Besides, I want to see Leliana in that hat.”

It was a ridiculous hat, and would not mesh well with the severity of the woman they had known as the Nightingale, the Inquisition’s spymaster. Ren laughed, conceding victory to him. “Fine, we’ll go.” She shook her head at him. “Who would have thought the Iron Bull would be advocating attendance at a boring set of meetings where people are going to yammer on all day?”

“I’m hoping there’ll be some fighting to do.” At her skeptical look, he raised his eyebrow. “What? It could happen. Remember the last time we were at Halamshiral? We got in a fair amount of fighting.”

“Did we? I can’t seem to recall. I was too dazzled by how you looked in that jacket. You going to wear it again?”

“Can’t. Last time I tried it on you ripped it off me—with your teeth.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Ren vividly recalled. The wool hadn’t tasted good, but she’d been too frenzied to have him naked to bother using her hands. She thought one of the buttons was still lodged in a floorboard somewhere. Warmed by the memory, she pulled his head down to hers and kissed him, hard.

Things would have heated up from there, but the raven, still perched above the door, cawed impatiently. The Iron Bull lifted his head and glared at the bird. “Fine. Bossy bird,” he grumbled. “Must have been one of Leliana’s.”

He went into the cabin and wrote the note officially agreeing to attend the Council, tucking it into the tiny case on the bird’s leg, and the bird flew off.

Turning back to his _kadan_ , he growled, “Now, where were we?”

And she proceeded to show him. Thoroughly.


	2. Our Work Cut Out for Us

Their arrival at Halamshiral proceeded with much less fanfare than there had been the last time. Ren had to admit she didn’t miss the adulation at all. The Iron Bull still drew attention, as the largest man most people in Orlais had ever seen, but few of them bothered to look down at the redhead at his side, and she quite liked it that way.

The people she most wanted to see were waiting for her, closeted in a meeting Ren had been asked to attend. Leaving the Iron Bull behind, she climbed the stairs to the double doors, where a pair of liveried servants waited, looking at her with chill disdain, and no recognition. Between her notoriety as the former Inquisitor and the fact that she’d spent the last couple of years living on the Storm Coast where everyone knew her, it was odd not to be known on sight.

“Ren Trevelyan, to see the Inquisitor.”

“Very good, messere. I will see if you are expected.”

She grinned to herself as the servant poked his head in the door and conferred with someone inside. How the mighty had fallen, she thought with amusement. If this wasn’t humbling, she wondered what would be.

At last, the servant turned back to her. “You may enter.”

“Thank you.”

They opened the doors and she walked in, to find the War Room recreated. “Whoa.” She stopped stockstill in the middle of the room. “If this doesn’t bring back memories.”

“As do you. My friend, how good it is to see you! It has been much too long.” Josephine rushed toward her, arms out, and Ren returned her friend’s embrace affectionately. Cullen and Morris both took their turns as well, all of them talking at the same time, asking questions and shouting the answers. It was remarkably like being part of a family, or so Ren understood. Her own family rarely hugged and almost never asked questions, unless the answer was likely to be embarrassing to the person who had been asked the question.

This was much nicer, although none of them had yet stopped talking long enough to listen to the answers to the questions they had asked. Ren was glad to see Cullen, particularly, looking so light and enthusiastic.

At last they pulled apart and took a moment to catch their breath, and Ren seized the chance to ask what they needed her for.

Josephine’s smile disappeared instantly. “Ferelden is displeased with the Inquisition’s ‘meddling’, as they put it, in the Hinterlands.”

“Meddling?” Ren repeated indignantly. “They weren’t even there!”

“Precisely what we need you to speak about, my friend.”

“And Orlais? What do they need me for?”

Cullen chuckled, and Morris reddened. “It seems that Lord Cyril, who is representing Orlais, has a bit of a … I believe Orlesians call it a ‘tendresse’ for our current Inquisitor. He has asked to have you here in his official capacity because he feels you still represent the Inquisition amongst the people, but unofficially I believe he feels he can negotiate more strongly with you than with our friend here.”

“But—wouldn’t that be to our advantage?”

“Yes, but not if it further angers Ferelden to keep you away. Having you here satisfies them both, and so … here you are.” Josephine shook her head. “It is the Game, is it not?”

“My favorite thing.” Ren rolled her eyes. She looked at them curiously. “Will Divine Victoria be joining us?”

Josephine shook her head. “She does not dare to do so, not openly, not at this time. She has kept the idea of this Exalted Council simmering for the best part of the last two years, but it threatened to come to an open boil if she did not deal with it now, and she must seen to be at least somewhat impartial.”

“The Iron Bull is looking forward to seeing her in the hat.” 

There were furtive grins all around, no one wanting to be seen mocking Her Perfection too openly—in Halamshiral, there were spies everywhere, a lesson that had been thoroughly drummed into Ren’s head the last time she had been there.

“So what do Orlais and Ferelden want, then, if they’ve forced this council to come to a head?” Ren asked.

“Orlais wants to control us, to take the reins of the Inquisition for themselves,” Morris told her. He glanced at Cullen. “I wonder, truly, how much of Lord Cyril’s much-whispered about interest in me is an attempt to gain control through the bedchamber if he cannot take it through the Council chamber.”

Cullen nodded. “That is possible.”

“And certainly Orlais has not left you out of their amorous intentions, Commander.” Josephine smiled at him. “I receive at least five marriage proposals a day.”

“I’ve told you what you can do with those,” Cullen growled.

Ren looked at him speculatively, wondering who was keeping the Commander so light-hearted these days. During her time with the Inquisition, he had been discreetly involved with Leliana, but that had not lasted past her investiture as Divine. She made a mental note to ask him about it, hoping to get him to open up to her.

“Are you certain?” Josephine purred at him. “Some of them are most … specific.”

Cullen glared at her, and she giggled.

Morris smiled, but it passed quickly and he looked at Ren. “Ferelden doesn’t want to control us; they want us gone entirely. I don’t know what the king thinks—he is remarkably silent in correspondence for someone so voluble in person—but Arl Teagan, who is here representing him, is bitter and vicious and angry, and wants the Inquisition taken apart and Skyhold dismantled. Or given to him, preferably.”

“Never!” Ren said swiftly. Take apart her beloved Skyhold, or give it to a Fereldan nobleman so ineffectual he had handed his own holdings over to a Tevinter magister without so much as a whimper? Unthinkable.

“Don’t worry,” Josephine assured her, “we have no such intentions.”

“What are our intentions, then?” They all glanced at one another, and she shook her head with a groan. “You don’t know what to do.”

“No,” Morris said at last. “The Inquisition’s role seems to have largely ended, as it was originally laid out, with the death of Corypheus, the final sealing of the Breach, and the ascension of Divine Victoria to the Sunburst Throne. Now … well, if we are going to go forward, we have to have a new mandate.”

“Did you talk to Cassandra? She’s the one who originally started the Inquisition.”

“She’s busy rebuilding the Seekers,” Cullen said, “and has said that she’s proud of what the Inquisition has accomplished and feels no need for any further say in its actions.”

“That sounds surprisingly passive for Cassandra.”

“You will have to speak to her. She seems to be … at peace, certain of her place in the world. I would hesitate to call her back from that on the Inquisition’s behalf, even if she had not specifically asked us not to do so,”Josephine said.

“So at the end of the day, that’s really why I’m here, to help you all decide what to do with the entity I used to run.”

Morris nodded.

“Why is this my decision?” Ren asked. She was angry and sad and a little bit flattered and a little bit … not sure if she wanted this responsibility thrust onto her again. In the center of her palm, the Anchor came burning to life, and she clenched her fist, and her jaw, against the pain. “I left the Inquisition years ago; I rarely have any contact with it today.”

“But in the eyes of Thedas, you still are the Inquisition,” Morris said. He smiled. “I don’t mind, not really. I’ve got no other-worldly mark, no mysterious backstory of appearing from a rift in the sky, no dramatic accomplishments like closing the Breach or killing Corypheus. I’m the guy who took your place, and if I wasn’t related to half of Thedas, no one would remember my name. And I’m fine with that. I like being in the background and getting things done.”

“You’re saying you would step down in a heartbeat.”

“Maybe not that quickly, no, but I would step down. I think I probably should. We can’t keep the peace across all of Thedas—even trying to keep the peace between Ferelden and Orlais has them at our throats rather than each other’s.”

“A small mercy,” Cullen put in.

Morris shook his head. “Not for long. Soon enough, they’ll just go around us, or each of them try to use us as leverage against the other. This is just the first step here. We’re caught in the middle of a war that never quite ended and hasn’t entirely begun, and whoever wins this seems likely to go marching into the other one’s fields as soon as we’re no longer standing in the way.”

“So if we disband, they do it sooner?”

“If we disband on our own, without letting them do it for us, we remove ourselves as pawns, and neither of them gets the advantage. We could delay the opening of hostilities between them for some time, because neither will want to be seen as the aggressor.”

Ren sighed. “You make a compelling case for disbanding.”

“But we still perform a necessary service,” Cullen argued. “Our people are still out and about across Thedas, helping people and taking out bandits and demons and bringing in rogue mages safely and talking down rogue Templars. We are a unifying force, the only entity in Thedas that treats all races equally.”

Ren looked around. “Not so equally. There are no elves in this room.”

Cullen flushed, accepting the truth of that statement. “You’re right. Not entirely equally—but more so than anywhere else. Disbanding the Inquisition takes a major step back in equality across Thedas; worse, we prove that our experiment didn’t work. We have a responsibility to our people, Ren, and one that we would shirk if we knuckle under to the intimidation tactics of Ferelden and Orlais.”

“You have a point,” she conceded. “So Morris thinks the Inquisition has reached the end of its usefulness, Cullen thinks it needs to continue. Josephine?”

The Ambassador sighed. “I cannot say for certain. Both arguments have a good point, but neither decision solves the problem entirely. Or, perhaps, what I mean to say is that we do not know for certain what problem the Inquisition exists in its current state to solve, and therefore we cannot say whether its existence is necessary.”

“And what does Fairbanks say?” He was the Inquisition’s spymaster, and Ren was curious to know why he wasn’t at the meeting.

Morris chuckled. “He thinks we should dare them all to come to Skyhold and take us down.”

“An entertaining point of view, but hardly practical.” Josephine smiled a little. “He apologizes for not being here—he was caught up in a bit of a tangle at Skyhold, something to do with scouts gone missing along the Tevinter border. But he promises to be with us as soon as he can get free.”

“Missing scouts in Tevinter?” Ren frowned. “Could Tevinter be making moves toward war? That sounds serious.”

The other three exchanged smiles. “I rather doubt it. They even sent an ambassador to these talks.”

“Really? Who did they get who was willing to come this far south?”

Cullen’s smile broadened. “Guess.”

Ren stared at him in surprise. “Dorian?”

“The very same. He arrived two days ago, and made us keep it a secret from you.”

She couldn’t help smiling herself, so glad to have the prospect of seeing her old friend. When the Iron Bull hadn’t mentioned Dorian, she had resigned herself to him not being there. Ren glanced at Morris. “Have you seen him?”

“Yes. It’s … He’s good. But … different. Going home—it’s changed him a bit.”

“Is he all right?”

Morris shrugged uncomfortably. “It’s hard to say.”

Ren was suddenly anxious to get going, to see everyone. “So we make Ferelden and Orlais happy, decide what to do with the Inquisition, and then we party? Or the other way around?”

“Possibly a bit of both. I would love it if you and the Iron Bull would be my guests at the theatre tomorrow night,” Josephine said. “We will have two entire boxes set aside for the Inquisition. It promises to be a most spectacular show.”

“We’d love to,” Ren said. “And then the Council starts the next day?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we have our work cut out for us—again. I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything else.”


	3. In the Gardens of Halamshiral

Ren left the War Room meeting, sighing. She caught herself rubbing the center of her left palm, even though the stab of pain she had felt during the meeting had passed. Another day, another problem—or a set of them. And herself in the middle of it, a position she had tried to leave behind long ago.

The gardens of Halamshiral were bustling; a lot of people were here for the Council, and following after them were the merchants and the hangers-on and the lovers of the various people involved and the spies and the servants … There seemed no end to them all. Ren was used to a quieter life, less of all of this noise and chaos, and it seemed very loud to her, all of it.

Cullen caught up to her as she was searching the crowd for familiar faces. “Overwhelming, isn’t it?” 

She glanced up at him, seeing lines in his face and dark circles around his eyes that she hadn’t seen there for a long time. “Are you … all right?” She had been about to ask if he was back on the lyrium, or struggling with it, again, but it seemed suddenly like an intrusive question.

That he could tell what she meant was obvious from the look on his face as he glanced down at her. “In the way you mean, yes. But … I admit to being tired. It’s a big job, the Inquisition, and … it seems to have changed. Perhaps because Morris and Fairbanks are both younger than I, newer at their position and thus possibly more energetic, perhaps because—“ He hesitated. “Because Leliana is no longer there … But I find myself thinking of a quiet life far more often than I used to.”

“What would you do?”

He smiled. “If I knew that, I would have left already. What is there for me to do? Study? Teach? Sit around in taverns and tell stories? But the world only needs one Varric.”

“True.”

“There is something that may have changed things. Come with me, will you?”

“Of course.” Ren followed, curious, as Cullen led her to the stables. The Inquisition’s horses were under the personal supervision of Horsemaster Dennet’s daughter Seanna, and if Ren didn’t miss her guess, the girl—not such a girl anymore, now a full-grown woman—blushed when Cullen appeared.

“Commander. My lady Trevelyan, it’s good to see you.”

“You, too.”

“How are you?” Cullen asked casually, oblivious to any interest Seanna might be showing in him more personally. “And how is our charge today?”

“Much better! Eating well, showing more energy. I expect he’ll be up and about in a couple of days.”

Cullen gestured for Ren to look inside a stall, where a large grey mabari lay, looking remarkably content despite a bandage on one paw. He lifted his head when he saw Cullen, trying to scramble to his feet.

“Down, soldier,” Cullen commanded, his voice firm but softer than Ren had ever heard it. “Your orders are to rest.” 

The dog gave a faint yip and relaxed, but his head stayed up, his eyes locked on Cullen.

“You found a dog?” she asked.

“Yes. The merchant said he was abandoned. Perhaps his owners tired of the novelty,” Cullen added bitterly. “He was terribly emaciated—the merchant had only had him a few days, and really didn’t know how to care for a dog—and had a splinter in his paw that was festering. Took me an age to find, didn’t it, boy?” he asked, and Ren could have sworn the dog nodded. “Another Fereldan trapped at the Winter Palace,” Cullen mused softly. “I couldn’t leave him to that fate.”

“Do you plan to take him to Ferelden sometime?” Ren noticed that Seanna was listening, her hand unmoving on the piece of harness she was polishing, as if she was waiting for the answer.

“Yes, I think he’d like that. We could visit my sister—she’s always after me to come see them all.” He frowned sternly at the dog. “She might try to spoil you. Remember who you report to.”

The dog let its head fall back into the soft straw, looking almost as though he was smiling, and Seanna resumed her polishing.

Cullen looked at Ren, that weariness back in his face. “The Inquisition will change after this. I’m not yet sure what that will mean—for the Inquisition, or me, or any of us.”

“Whatever happens, Cullen, you have my support. Whatever you decide to do,” Ren told him. 

“And you mine. In whatever form you require. I don’t …” He paused, as if suddenly aware of Seanna’s presence, and then began again. “You have richly deserved it, time and again.”

Ren smiled. “If your support comes with that of your new friend, I’m sold. I know a useful ally when I see one.” She nodded at the dog, who gave a deep sigh and settled even more contentedly into his bed. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it.” Her eyes met Seanna’s, and she raised her eyebrows in encouragement. Cullen gave an abstracted nod in her direction over his shoulder, his eyes on the dog, and Ren took her leave of the stable and those inside it.

An elf in an Inquisition scout’s uniform met her outside the stables. “There you are, my lady! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” Her accent was hard to place; Rivain, Ren thought, but wasn’t entirely sure. She’d never seen this particular elf before, and she felt the old caution come flooding back. Oh, the Inquisition. Surprisingly, she really hadn’t missed it.

“Well, you’ve found me here,” she said to the elf. “What do you intend to do with me?”

“Bring you to the Divine, of course,” the elf told her, as if it would have been ridiculous for her to have done anything else.

“Of course.” Ren followed her through the throngs of people to the Divine’s particular balcony, where Leliana stood waiting for her.

The Divine looked serene, somehow—where Cullen’s face had gained lines, Leliana’s appeared to have lost them. Perhaps it was the truly ridiculous hat, but she even appeared to have lost some of the hard edges.

“Ren, what a pleasure to see you. Thank you for coming out of retirement for this,” Leliana said, coming forward with her hands outstretched.

Relieved by the gesture—because she hadn’t particularly wanted to kneel to a woman whose divinity she didn’t believe in, who led an entire religion Ren felt was unnecessary—Ren took Leliana’s hands, squeezing them lightly before letting go. “How has life as Divine been treating you?”

Leliana sighed. “As expected.” She walked to the railing of the balcony and looked out on the scene. “There is so much to do, so much pain … and so few answers. As you know, my friend.”

“Yes.”

“I was eighteen when I saw the Winter Palace for the first time.” Leliana laughed, and in it Ren could hear the echo of the girl she must have been. “I had eyes only for all the splendor of it. The marble, the gold, the fabrics … I was dazzled. And the same beauty holds true today—but now I see beneath the veneer.”

“You sound sad.”

“It is easier on the heart to see only the gilding.” Leliana shrugged. “But then, I was a dreamer, and you have always been a realist, or so it seems to me. For you, perhaps it is easier to see beneath. And I cannot deny that it is better, far better, for the woman in this ostentatious hat to see the hands that are rubbed raw as they make the gold gleam, the tears shed in the night over silk embroidery that must be just so. I must see these things to be a good Divine … but I miss the girl who was overawed by them.”

“Anyone would, I imagine,” Ren said. 

Leliana nodded. “Perhaps.” She looked at Ren, and the sharp gaze of the Nightingale, the Inquisition’s spymaster, was back. “You know that they seek to tear the Inquisition down—friend and foe, they want the pieces for themselves.”

“Yes.”

“Because they fear it.”

“Its vault of secrets, its soldiers … its position directly between them, crouching on their borders like an ever-growing spider …” Ren shrugged. “I’d fear it, too.”

Leliana smiled, almost fondly. “Always the modest one. It is not our secrets or our soldiers or our presence—or even our Inquisitor—that they fear. Those things have always existed, in one place or another.” She nodded at Ren’s left hand, and Ren closed her fingers protectively over the Anchor, feeling the pain there even though it wasn’t. Since she never knew when it would strike, the shadow of the pain appeared there whenever she thought about it. 

“Me?” 

“Yes. Your actions began to reshape Thedas; your influence is felt everywhere. So few people have the desire—or the ability—to step away at the height of their power that no one truly believes you have done so. They fear either that you are controlling the Inquisition through Morris, for what sinister motive no one knows, or that you are preparing a coup elsewhere, while the Inquisition distracts.”

“They give me too much credit.”

“Do they?” Leliana raised her eyebrows. “You are capable of much more than you imagine, my friend.” She added, “I have held them off as long as I can; in fact, I am surprised they allowed themselves to be put off for this long. The Inquisition’s time is coming to an end.”

“Is it?” Ren frowned. “Is that the decree of Divine Victoria, that the Inquisition be dissolved?”

“Not at this moment, no. But as Divine, it is my duty to think of Thedas—and all her peoples. We set out to restore peace, and now that peace is upon us. What more is the Inquisition’s role? What does it exist for? If I have these questions, then so does the rest of Thedas.”

“What can I do to help make the Council go more smoothly?”

“Explore the grounds, let yourself be seen. The delegates need to put a face to the legends.”

“That I can do.”

“Good. May I suggest you get started?” Leliana looked out across the grounds. “I recommend that you start with the Tevinter ambassador.” She smiled. “I know he has been anxious to see you.”

Ren followed the line of her gaze and saw Dorian, deep in discussion with an overdressed man wearing a mask adorned with owl feathers. She couldn’t restrain her smile, and barely managed a “see you later” to Leliana before hurrying away, wondering how many people the Divine knew who came and went with as little ceremony. Hopefully Leliana found it refreshing.

Dorian looked up as he saw her approach, his smile lighting his handsome face. He, too, looked weary, Ren saw. Going home must have been hard on him. She put an extra squeeze into the hug she gave him once he disentangled himself from the man with the owl on his face. “So good to see you!”

“And you, my very dear friend. How I have missed you.” He held her at arm’s length. “I see nothing changes but that you get younger and happier. The Iron Bull has been good for you.”

“Yes, he has. Very much so.”

“As it happens, I have already seen your hulking lover, and he sent me with orders to find you. Wicked Grace in Varric’s rooms.”

Ren laughed. “I should have known.”

“You should have, indeed.” Dorian wiggled his fingers at him. “These magic hands are ready to win your coin away.”

“You’ll have to use those magic fingers on someone else.” Thinking of Morris, Ren wished she had avoided the innuendo.

Dorian sighed. “Not recently, I’m afraid. And yes, I have heard that the Orlesian ambassador has designs on a certain blond Inquisitor, and I wish them both happy—if such a thing can be had in their positions.”

“And how has been your experience at the Exalted Council, my lord?” Ren asked, sensing that he wanted her to change the subject.

“Oh, riveting. Highly.” He rolled his eyes. “Everyone is not-so-subtly trying to get me to tell them all I know about the Inquisitor. Both of them. Half the amusement is using the title and then watching everyone try to figure out which one I mean.”

“How did you manage to get yourself sent down here?”

“A ‘reward for my interest in the south’, or so they put it. I think it was the most convenient way to get me out of Tevinter again.”

“They were less than overjoyed to have you back?”

He glanced at her, and she saw a pain in his eyes that she had seen only a few times before when he talked to her about his past.

“Never mind. Forget I asked,” Ren said hastily.

“I do need to talk to you, but … not just yet. After a few glasses of wine. Or a dozen.”

“As many as you need.”

“Varric may run out.” 

Ren laughed. “Varric run out of liquor? That’ll be the day.” She was glad to have Dorian’s musical laugh join hers.

At that, they reached the door of Varric’s rooms. A tall, red-haired, very disapproving man opened it on their knock. “Viscount Tethras will see you now.”


	4. Cards with Friends

Ren stared at the man who had opened Varric’s door. “Viscount Tethras?”

He sighed, his mouth turning down in what appeared to be disgust. “Yes. That is who you have come to see, is it not?” 

She looked at Dorian, whose mustache was twitching with amusement. “You knew about this?”

“My dear, everyone knows. Except, apparently, you.” 

Facing the man with the disapproving face at the door, Ren said, “Yes, then, apparently I am here to see Viscount Tethras.”

He nodded coldly before opening the door further and ushering her in. “You’ll find him in the inner chamber.”

“Who was that?” Ren whispered to Dorian as they made their way down a short hall.

“I have no idea.”

“Bran Cavin,” said Varric’s familiar gravelly voice. He was sitting behind a table, shuffling the cards for Wicked Grace, but he got up as Ren and Dorian came in. “Former interim Viscount of Kirkwall, now Seneschal again. Which seems to be a fancy term for someone whose job is to disapprove of everything the Viscount does.”

He consented to be hugged, briefly, in the enthusiasm of Ren’s first sight of him in far too long.

“You look good, Rusty.”

“So do you. Being Viscount must agree with you.”

He laughed. “Pissing off all the right people does have that effect. Although it does make it more difficult to avoid the Merchants Guild.”

“How did they manage to tie you to such a responsible task?”

“It turns out if you fund enough reconstruction efforts, they figure the best way to keep you doing it is to give you the biggest job they can find. That it also happens to be the worst job they can think of is just a bonus.”

“I think I need a drink. And to sit down.”

“Done, and done.”

Varric poured her an ale while Dorian pulled a chair out for her.

“I haven’t had this kind of service since I left Skyhold,” Ren told them. “Now, both of you, stop acting like ridiculous courtiers and sit down and tell me what’s going on with you.”

“Nothing to tell, Rusty. I’ve got a really pointy crown that I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing, but that’s it.” He shrugged. “They only voted me in because I got the harbor and businesses up and running again. They want shit fixed, and it turns out, I can do that. Who knew? Ah, before I forget …” He rummaged in a drawer, tossing papers on the floor in a messy pile until he came to the one he wanted. “I sort of got you a present.”

“You did?” She eyed the parchment he was holding out to her warily. “Is this a present I want, or one that’s going to get me into a lot of trouble?”

“Maybe both.”

She took the parchment, unrolling it and reading the fancy script. Her eyebrows flew up. “Varric, this is official recognition of my title and holdings in Kirkwall.”

“Just what you always wanted, right?”

“Not … exactly?”

“You’re a comtesse now!”

“Does that make the Iron Bull a comte?” Dorian asked. His rich laugh filled the room. “I’m certain the nobility of Kirkwall will love that.”

“Hey, I think a fancy little crown would look great on me,” the Iron Bull bellowed from the doorway. He was standing there with Cole, having just come in.

Greetings were exchanged roundabout, and it was several minutes before Ren could get back to the questions at hand regarding her sudden acquisition of land and title in the Free Marches. “Varric, why on Thedas am I suddenly a comtesse?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, the way Cullen did when he was uncomfortable. “Well … it’s kind of boring in Kirkwall, with Hawke gone and Aveline in familial bliss. She’s on her third baby, did I tell you? Being Uncle Varric is entertaining, but it tends to pall after a while. I thought … you and Tiny could liven up the place.”

“Wouldn’t they just?” Dorian said, dissolving in another fit of mirth. Ren had the sense that it was a bit forced, but it also sounded like he needed the laugh.

“You should stop by sometime and see your estate. It’s pretty nice—for Kirkwall, anyway. It’s been fixed up a lot since Fenris left.”

“Well, thank you, Varric. I look forward to visiting.”

He looked serious for a moment. “I don’t know how this Council thing is going to end, so … whatever happens, you always have a place to go if you need it.”

The Iron Bull clapped Varric on the shoulder, looking pleased. “Good idea.”

“I thought so.”

Cole had been standing silent and uncomfortable all this time, and Ren turned to him. “Come on in, sit down. Have you practiced playing cards since the last time I saw you?”

He nodded, looking serious. “Sometimes people get the cards wrong when they bet, and I help them.” Frowning, he added, “They don’t always like it.”

The Iron Bull guffawed. “You can sit in at my card table any time … as long as we’re clear that if I get the cards wrong, I mean to.”

“All right.” Cole took the seat next to Varric, but he still looked a little confused. “I’ve been in a lot of taverns where people played cards recently. I don’t know that I understand why moving paper around makes people happy, but it does. Sometimes.”

“You’re coming along nicely, kid,” Varric told him.

“Am I?” Cole looked pleased. 

“You and Lizette visit a lot of taverns together?” the Iron Bull asked.

Cole nodded.

“Good for you, kid.” The Iron Bull grinned at him. “Always knew you had it in you.”

Ren was surprised by the implication. “You and this Lizette—you’re … together? Huh.”

“Her songs bring happiness to those who hear them, and I can make her happy in return,” Cole said softly. His face shone with pride.

“I’m glad for you.” Ren wasn’t sure how someone so out of step with the rest of the world had found happiness, but if he could, there was hope for Dorian—and for Varric, too. She wanted to see them all find the companionship, the partnership, she had with her Ashkaari. She caught his eye across the table, smiling at him, glad to be here with him and with these other friends who meant so much to her. It was almost worth coming to the Winter Palace and sitting through lots of boring meetings. “Chargers get all settled?” she asked him.

“Settled enough. You know them.” He grinned. “Now, we playing cards, or what?”

“Definitely playing cards,” Dorian said, taking the well-shuffled deck from Varric and dealing all around.

They settled in for a long game, the banter coming easily even after all this time. Dorian was off a bit—Ren wasn’t certain what was going on there, but he drank less than usual and was clearly pushing himself to be sparkling.

When eventually Cole fell asleep across the cards and a very unhappy Seneschal Bran came to the door to ask them when they were all leaving so he could go to bed, they called it a night—hours earlier than they would have if this was still Skyhold—leaving Varric to put a pillow under Cole’s head and a blanket over his shoulders.

As soon as she had him outside, Ren turned to Dorian. “Out with it?”

“Out with what?”

“You know what. Whatever it is that has you all tied up in knots that you don’t want to talk about.”

“Perhaps I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Then you shouldn’t have been silent so loudly,” the Iron Bull pointed out.

“Thank you for the assistance,” Dorian said to him acidly. He picked up Ren’s hand, studying the Anchor. “And how is this?”

She snatched it away. “Fine, thank you. Some people worry too much.”

“Some people love you,” he said. “Too much to worry you unduly.”

Ren shook her head at him. “Now you have to tell me. What’s going on, Dorian?”

He sighed. “When the Exalted Council has ended, I’m going back to Tevinter. For good this time.”

“I take it from the long face that you haven’t reconciled with your family.”

Dorian winced. “No. And … now I never can. My father is dead. Assassinated, I believe.”

“Oh, Dorian. I’m so sorry.” Ren’s relationship with her own father wasn’t good; the last time they’d spoken they’d mutually vowed never to do so again. But she knew if he was killed it would rock her world, just as Dorian’s father’s murder must have rocked his. She embraced him. He held himself stiffly away from her for a few moments, then relaxed, leaning his chin on her shoulder.

At last he pulled back, looking away to mask the depth of his emotion. “I received a perversely cheerful note congratulating me on assuming his seat in the Magisterium. That’s how I found out.”

Ren shook her head. Tevinter politics was a harsh world—worse by far than what she’d experienced in the southern nations—so it didn’t surprise her entirely, just made her even more sad for Dorian that he had to go back. “Did you see him at all while you were there?”

“A few times. Stilted, formal conversation. Nothing of any substance. He certainly didn’t hint that he had kept me as his heir. I thought my defiance of his plans for me had cut me out of that position forever. I wish I could ask him why it didn’t.”

“Maybe he loved you, despite it all,” Ren offered.

To her surprise, Dorian nodded. “Maybe he did. I’m told this ‘ambassadorship’ was his doing. I can only guess that it was to keep me far away before the trouble began. If I had still been there—“

“They’d have gotten you, too, if they’d wanted you, and you know it,” the Iron Bull put in. “Wallow in sentiment if you want, but use your brain, too.”

“Yes, you’re right, of course,” Dorian said, nodding. “If someone wanted my father dead in the Imperium, it was only a matter of time. Still, it’s hard not to speculate that perhaps I could have changed things.”

Ren tucked her arm through Dorian’s. “So after all these years of protesting that you weren’t, you’ll truly be a Magister?”

He forced a smile. “Oh, yes. I can’t wait to degrade the Magisterium with my presence. I believe many new and shocking outfits will be required.”

“And what will you do, shockingly attired and bent on degradation?” 

The smile disappeared as if it had never been. “I find my father’s killers and kill them back. Then I find those giving Tevinter a bad name and kill them, too.”

“You’ll be doing a lot of killing,” the Iron Bull said.

“Yes, I imagine so. But they’re most likely all the same people, so that should make the job somewhat easier.”

Ren hesitated before saying, “You might need some help.”

“You mean you?” Dorian’s smile was genuine, this time, and he squeezed her arm with his affectionately. “Not this time, my friend. And not just because the man-mountain here would get us all killed as soon as he stepped foot over the border. Some things a man has to do for himself.”

“But you will remember you have friends who are willing to step in whenever you need it?”

Dorian nodded. “That I will. Thank you. And I won’t be entirely without support. My friend Maevaris has gathered other Magisters who feel as we do. We’ll be an actual faction in the Magisterium. I’ll teach them manners, take them shopping—such fun!”

“In that case, I wish you luck. And safety.”

“I’ll need it. Magisters are tricksy bastards.” Disentangling his arm from hers, he reached into his robes. “I almost forgot—I also have a bit of a present for you.”

“You, too? It’s not my birthday.”

“No. Perhaps it’s ours, seeing you again.” Dorian handed her a small crystal object.

Ren turned it over in her hands. “What is this?”

“It’s a sending crystal. So that you can hear my voice—and, perhaps more importantly, I can hear yours. Magic!”

She closed her hand around it. “Thank you, Dorian. You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

“Oh, I think I have, my friend. I think I have.” He held out his arms and she went into them, and they held each other for a long time. He whispered in her ear, “You are my dearest friend; perhaps my only friend. That will never change, no matter where we are.”

Ren held him more tightly, wishing he didn’t sound quite so much as though he thought he was about to be killed.


	5. Orlesian Theatre

The next day Ren met with the Inquisitor and his advisors again, discussing strategies and plans for the Council. The meeting ran for hours, and she came back out into the sunlight feeling exhausted and frustrated, no closer to deciding anything. Morris seemed torn between standing up and fighting for the Inquisition’s continued existence and throwing his hands up and walking away from it all. Josephine was distracted by the imminent arrival of Fergus Cousland, with whom she had an understanding. He was to join them all at the theatre that evening. And Cullen was weary. He was stalwart as always, his support there for the Inquisitor as strong as ever—but she could feel that he didn’t know how much more he had in him.

And Ren didn’t think any of this was her decision any longer, and frankly wished they would leave her out of it all. She had stepped down for solid reasons, many of which had to do with her impatience with international politics and her unwillingness to play those games—and yet here she was again, embroiled in it all once more. 

As she stood there, right hand unconsciously massaging the left, where the Anchor had flared up again in the middle of the meeting, a dwarf in Inquisition gear came up to her with a note. He was gone again, busy on the next errand, before she could do more than thank him. She opened it and smiled—Blackwall was here. Thom Rainier, she supposed she should call him, but he had always been Blackwall to her.

She found him behind the tavern, whittling away at a stick. Already the head and body of a fennec was forming from the wood, and Ren stopped to admire his skill.

“Fashionably late, I see,” she said teasingly. “I thought you weren’t going to make an appearance.”

“What, miss the dog and pony show? Not a chance.” He stood up, smiling, and laid the knife and partially carved stick on the bench where he’d been sitting. They looked at one another for a moment that stretched out until Blackwall cleared his throat. “So tell me everything that’s happened since I’ve been away.”

“I’m hardly the person you want to ask,” she said. “I’ve been away myself.”

“Yes, on the Storm Coast. I heard. And how is the Iron Bull?” There was a very faint edge to his voice, and Ren wasn’t sure if she was flattered or sad that he still appeared to have feelings for her.

She decided to ignore that topic altogether. “Same as always. Big and loud and thinks he’s smarter than everyone.”

“Good.”

“And how has Weisshaupt been? Is being a Grey Warden for real the fulfillment you hoped for?”

He smiled. “Is anything? I feel I have a purpose, that I’m fulfilling the role that was meant for me. It feels right.”

Ren nodded. He had always wanted that. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“The Wardens will be missing me, but they’re not going to keep me away from a friend who might need my sword arm. I’m here for whatever you might need.”

“I hope you’ll pardon me if I say I hope I don’t need your sword arm.”

Blackwall chuckled. “You can say so, but you always seem to find something to do.”

“This time, I hope not to,” she said to him. “But it’s good to have you here in case I do.”

He returned to his whittling, and Ren went off to keep an appointment she very much didn’t look forward to—Lady Vivienne, Madame de Fer, had invited her for tea.

They had a rather stilted conversation over their cups, and Ren was glad that at least her sister Demelza wasn’t here for this one. She and Vivienne had ganged up on Ren fairly thoroughly the last time they’d shared a meal together.

Vivienne hadn’t changed a bit. Still looking down her nose at anyone who wasn’t herself, still certain that hers were the only opinions that mattered. And still far too interested in the Iron Bull for Ren’s peace of mind. Vivienne had never made any secret of her admiration of his physique, and she asked a number of leading questions about Ren’s happiness with him, questions Ren tried her best to dodge, not wanting to share any of the intimate details of her life with Vivienne.

At last the interminable tea was over, just in time for Ren to hastily hurry back to her quarters to change for their evening at the theatre. What did one wear to an Orlesian theatre, anyway? No doubt finery much more grand than anything she owned. She resolved to wear her Inquisition uniform; surely that would be satisfactory.

As she exited her rooms, uniformed and ready for whatever the evening should hold, she ran into Cassandra in the hall. They exchanged greetings—warmer than Ren would have expected, actually. She and Cassandra had never been particularly close, although they had certainly respected one another. 

“You’re going the wrong way, aren’t you?” Ren asked.

“For what?”

“The theatre?”

“Oh. That.” Cassandra cleared her throat. “I have … begged off for the evening. This is your first time?”

“Yes.”

Cassandra nodded. “I hope you will enjoy it. Perhaps it will appeal to your sense of the … ridiculous.”

“Ah. Not your thing?”

“Very much not. I—did want to speak with you, however, so I am glad to have found you here.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes. Yes, of course! I just—I want you to know that I am your friend. I will always be your friend.”

“This sounds serious. Have I truly stepped in something so soon?” Ren asked, concerned.

“No! Or, at least … All I want to tell you is to do what is in your heart, no matter what anyone might tell you.”

Thinking she meant regarding the decisions of the Council, Ren nodded. “That is a lovely sentiment.” They both knew it couldn’t be that simple.

But Cassandra’s eyes widened. “Marriage is much more than a ‘lovely sentiment’!”

“Marriage? Me? What?”

“I don’t pretend to understand what vows the Iron Bull might take in a ceremony, but of course, if that is what makes you happy then—“

“Me, marry the Iron Bull?” Ren frowned. “Where would you have gotten that idea? I’m not even Andrastean!”

They stared at one another, and then Cassandra closed her eyes, shaking her head and sighing. “You’re not proposing to the Iron Bull.”

“No, most definitely not.”

“I am going to kill Varric. Why, after all this time, do I still fall for his ridiculous tales? Why?”

“Well, you aren’t alone,” Ren pointed out. “Most of Thedas falls for his ridiculous tales.” 

“Yes, but I should certainly know better by now.” Cassandra groaned. “Can we simply forget this conversation ever took place?”

“Absolutely.” Out of curiosity, Ren asked, “Did Varric tell you I was going to propose?”

“He mentioned a proposal. I suppose I filled in the blanks.” Cassandra gave a rueful smile. “No doubt he meant me to do so. That dwarf gets entirely too much joy from my discomfort.”

“Well, I am as married as I ever intend to be,” Ren said. Her commitment to the Iron Bull was complete; no empty ceremony could make it more so, in her mind.

Cassandra nodded. “Being Inquisitor brought you many good things … but only a few were by your choice. Take what happiness you can from those, and do not let them go.”

“I won’t,” Ren assured her. She wondered what happiness Cassandra gained from her own choices, but didn’t feel it was her place to ask. She only hoped the Seeker would find fulfillment somewhere.

They parted with promises to speak again the next day, and Ren hurried down to find the others waiting for her—the Iron Bull, his eye lighting as he saw her, Dorian, Varric, Morris, and Josephine, with Fergus Cousland by her side. Ren exchanged greetings with the Teyrn of Highever, wondering if he was also going to take a seat—and a voice—in the Council, but didn’t feel comfortable asking right now. Tomorrow would be soon enough. She noticed that Dorian and Morris were hovering on opposite edges of the group, not looking at each other, and felt sad for her friends that the Inquisition had driven them so thoroughly apart. She squeezed the Iron Bull’s hand in passing, glad once more that she had chosen her life with him over the Inquisition. It was entirely worth it.

“Ah, there you are,” Josephine said with relief. “I was afraid we were going to be late.”

“Sorry. I was detained. You know how it is.”

“I do,” Josephine agreed as they set off. “It was a very busy day, speaking with representatives from … everywhere.”

“Did they give you any trouble?” Fergus asked. His hair had been dark when Ren first met him, but it was liberally streaked with grey now, and the scar across his forehead gave him a very dashing, rakish air.

Josephine smiled at him. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.” Then the smile faded, and she added, “Which only means they are all saving their troubles for later. It would have been a relief if I could have dealt with them now.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” Ren said. 

“Nor do I know how you did all the things you have done. We have each filled our roles as best we could, and succeeded in most cases.”

“More than succeeded,” Fergus said. “The Inquisition is the talk of Thedas, and the two of you as its public faces chief amongst it. And Morris, naturally,” he added.

“Naturally.” But Ren felt a chill. It was true—from everything she had heard, her name was still the one most often associated with the position of Inquisitor. Morris had failed to take strong enough steps to make the job his own. Hence her presence here at this Council, where she would very much rather not be.

Fergus glanced at her, and she could tell they understood one another.

Nothing more was said of business on the way to the theatre. Fergus and Ren had quite a few acquaintances in common, since the Chargers had done a fair amount of work for him, and she now lived within the bounds of his teyrnir, so they kept the conversation going. Josephine seemed glad enough to have the chance to relax between the two of them.

She had reserved a box for the Inquisition party, and they took their seats, the lights dimming as they sat. The curtain went up on one of the strangest things Ren had ever seen. She leaned against the Iron Bull’s shoulder, listening to his occasional whispered explanations and feeling his hearty guffaws reverberate through his chest next to her ear. He had attended these things several times before, and was clearly enjoying himself. Josephine and Fergus were as well, and Varric watched avidly. Ren could practically see him taking notes for a future book.

She didn’t even try to follow the antics of the actors. The past couple of days had thrown her back into a world she thought she had left behind long ago, one she had never intended to re-enter. Now here she was again, and who knew what she would be expected to accomplish in the days to come. She could only be grateful for the presence of these dear and trusted friends around her.

Then, as her attention wandered from the stage and she idly scanned the audience, she saw someone she had not expected—her brother Cadoc, sitting in the box across from her, staring at her with an equal amount of surprise. Although Ren imagined hers was probably greater; the last time she had seen Cadoc without their father at his side, they had been teenagers. And here he was in the midst of a party of Orlesians, no sign of their father anywhere.

At the intermission, she excused herself from her party and went to find him. He viewed her approach with a distinct lack of enthusiasm—they’d had little to no contact since Ren had run away from home at the age of nineteen. Nearly a decade ago, now. They had both changed … or at least, Ren hoped they had. “Strange to see you here.”

“You as well.” Cadoc seemed taller now than he had the last time she’d seen him—at Skyhold, just before the defeat of Corypheus. Perhaps it was just that he stood with more confidence.

“Father’s not with you?”

“He’s at the Winter Palace. Nothing can be done without him, of course.” Once, Cadoc would have meant that sincerely; now, Ren heard an edge of sarcasm in the comment.

“And he let you come out alone?”

“Let? Oh, you haven’t heard. Yes, Father’s almost entirely given up on me as his heir. I believe he’s thinking of settling the estate on Demelza.”

“What could you possibly have done?” Cadoc had been groomed to inherit from birth, cosseted and spoiled and catered to—especially after the death of their younger brother Gawen had left him their father’s only son.

“My marriage … Felice left me.”

Ren’s eyebrows flew up. That sort of behavior was nearly unheard of in arranged marriages—after the marriage, that was. She herself had run away from one, but that was before the ceremony, not after. “What did you do to her?”

Cadoc grimaced. “It was actually more what I didn’t do to her. As it turns out, I … ah … hm. I prefer the company of men. Unfortunately, I discovered this a bit too late. Felice was not amused at my lack of ability, shall we say.”

He was watching her, clearly expecting her to be shocked. She couldn’t say she was—Cadoc’s experience of women had been slight, and she wasn’t surprised that in the face of a lifetime of pressure to procreate, he had chosen an alternate path … or his body had chosen it for him.

“Good for you.”

It wasn’t the reaction he had expected, and he stood startled for a moment, then relief lit his face. “Needless to say, that hasn't been the response from most people.”

“I’m not most people.”

“No. I guess you’re not.” Cadoc glanced over his shoulder. “Looks like they’re starting again. Ren? Be careful. There’s more going on here than meets the eye.”

There always was. Still, she appreciated the warning. “Thanks. Maybe … maybe we can have dinner while I’m here, catch up?” They had been close once, when they were children.

He nodded. “Maybe we can.”

Then he returned to his party and she to hers. Later that night, in bed with the Iron Bull after they had thanked Josephine for an enjoyable evening and taken their leave of the others, she told him about it. He wasn’t surprised, either, and said as much. “Your father can’t have been pleased.”

“Definitely not.” 

“You ready to run into him at Halamshiral?”

“Why not?” she asked. “What can he do to me now?”

“Probably nothing,” Ashkaari agreed, but his arm tensed, tightening around her shoulders. “Still, you should—“

He cut his words off as Ren caught her breath in a hiss of pain, the Anchor sizzling and burning in her hand. She held it stiff and still, clenching her teeth, until the spasm passed. Ashkaari raised her hand to his lips, kissing the fingertips. And then he froze, her hand still cradled in his much larger one. “ _Kadan_ ,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“Look.”

She followed his gaze. For a moment, she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to be looking at. The Anchor was a familiar sight in her palm now, so familiar that it took her a moment to recognize what had him concerned. And then she realized that instead of the round, coin-sized dot in the center of her palm that it had always been, the Anchor now stretched up toward her fingers and out toward the heel of her hand and off to the other edge. It was probably fifty percent bigger than it had originally been.

“It’s growing.” As if there weren’t enough questions in the midst of this Winter Palace nightmare, now she had to wonder why the Anchor was bigger.

Ashkaari summed up the situation for both of them. “Fuck.”


	6. In the Thick of the Investigation

The Iron Bull saw his _kadan_ off to the first morning of the Council’s talks, trying to hide how worried he was about her. That fucking thing in her hand. He had never trusted it, and now to find out that it was growing, in addition to randomly sparking and causing her pain … if he ever got his hands on Solas, he’d wring that shifty elf’s neck. After he healed Morvoren, of course.

He couldn’t help a spark of fear. What if even the elf couldn’t heal her? What if they never found the elf? Fairbanks had looked; Leliana had looked, using all the resources she’d collected over the years as well as some truly scary agents of the Chantry. Solas was gone as though he had never existed. And Dorian had been researching the Anchor, but had found nothing to tell him what it was or what it could do if left on Morvoren’s hand indefinitely.

The mage was the first person the Iron Bull wanted to talk to this morning, to share with him the revelation that the Anchor was growing, but he was stuck in the talks, too. As were Cullen and Josephine. And Varric, too, as Viscount of Kirkwall.

The Chargers wouldn’t take his mind off his worries; Krem was as observant as the Iron Bull himself. He would see in a minute that something was bothering the Iron Bull and have it out of him in less time than that. 

He felt for Morvoren, who not only had to worry about her hand, but had to sit in uncomfortable chairs listening to greedy and boring politicians yammer on about their made-up grievances. They might eventually get to the point, which was what they wanted from the Inquisition, but it would take days, if not weeks. The Iron Bull was already antsy and ready to get the fuck out of Halamshiral.

On the other hand, maybe he could help. If he talked to the Orlesian and Fereldan nobility scattered around the grounds, maybe he could come up with some leverage to use against one faction or the other, something that could shorten the talks. Of course, his liaison with the former Inquisitor was widely known, but he viewed that as an asset—those women who didn’t get a kick out of trying to steal him away from Morvoren would get a kick out of trying to bed someone who had bedded such a famous personage. Either way, there was a benefit in doing some mingling.

He was on his way through the small village of shops and taverns that had sprung up to take advantage of the talks when an elf in Inquisition scout gear came up to him. 

“The Iron Bull, I believe.”

Time was, he would have known immediately who she was. This one would have been hard to miss—very few elves he’d met spoke with a Starkhaven accent, but hers was broad and unmistakable. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“Would you mind coming with me, serah?”

“What’s this about?”

“With the Inquisition staff occupied by the talks, you appear to be the highest-ranking person available, and there is need for someone to make a decision.”

He raised his eyebrow. Highest-ranking? He wasn’t even with the Inquisition any longer. He tried saying that to the elf, but she remained firm in her insistence that he come with her. At last she relented enough to say, “Something has occurred that requires consultation—and you may just be the best person to speak to.”

She had succeeded in intriguing him, so he agreed and followed her back through the hastily erected buildings to one set off by itself.

When he saw what the elf had brought him to see, he was flummoxed. Not so flummoxed that he couldn’t see how narrowly she was watching him, but enough so that he just stood there unable to think what to do next for a few good long seconds.

Lying in that room was a dead Qunari in full armor, sprawled in a pool of his own blood. 

When the Iron Bull’s brain had returned to functioning, his first thought was that it was no wonder the elf had been so insistent on bringing him here. She’d wanted to see his reaction, to determine if he was involved.

Not only was he not involved, he was taken so thoroughly by surprise that he wasn’t sure what to do first. How had a Qunari come here, to the Winter Palace, without being noticed? This guy would have been easily as tall as the Iron Bull had he been standing; someone would have seen him. Many things could be concealed, but not height and horns. One or the other, maybe, but never both, as the Iron Bull had learned to his cost in his years of spycraft. And if one person had seen a Qunari, they would have told another person, and inevitably someone would have told the Iron Bull—if only to see what he knew. So somehow a Qunari had made it to the Palace without being noticed, and then been killed.

He could have snuck in if someone was helping him. Not likely to be the Fereldans—they didn’t have the infrastructure here. Had to be the Orlesians, if it was anyone. Why did the Orlesians want Qunari here? For him? Made no sense. And the Ben-Hassrath had given up on him two years ago, when Gatt and Grim were killed. 

“You,” he said to the elf.

“Joy,” she said in the same brusque tone.

He raised his eyebrow questioningly.

“It’s my name.”

“Really?” It wasn’t particularly elven, but then, stranger things had happened.

“Do I look as though I would pick that for myself?”

That she didn’t. “Fine. Joy, then. Can you sneak into the talks and get me Fairbanks and the former Inquisitor?” Morvoren wouldn’t want to be dragged into Inquisition business, but he wasn’t sure they had any choice at this point. And if this guy was here now, it had something to do with the talks—if they could clear up the twin mysteries of his existence and his demise, maybe the talks would go faster.

“And leave you here by yourself?”

“Well, I would go, but I think my presence in the talks would be disruptive, don’t you?”

Joy narrowed her eyes, looking at him thoughtfully. At last she sighed. “Very well. But I know exactly where everything in this room is, so I will know if anything has been touched or altered in any way.”

“Fair enough.” He hadn’t intended on touching anything anyway, even if he hadn’t believed her, and on the whole, he thought he did. Not enough that he wouldn’t have tried something if he had really needed to, but enough not to try it just to test her. He made up his mind to ask Fairbanks about her later.

While he waited for the others, he squatted down in the doorway, gazing thoughtfully at the body. Behind him, a knot of interested spectators was forming. They couldn’t see past him well enough to know what he was looking at, but the mere fact that he was here, blocking their view of something, was enough to set speculations in motion. The Iron Bull ignored them, studying the scene before him. The Qunari looked like a broken doll, the colorful armor he wore adding to the imagery. Blood spattered the wall behind him; it looked as though he had been stabbed in the back, and then the knife drawn out hastily enough to spray the blood on it across the wall. Had the killer been in a hurry, or had it been on purpose? Was there a message to the blood? 

He heard the crowd behind him whispering and parting and a familiar voice saying “Excuse me”, and he stood up. Morvoren came toward him. “Not that I’m not grateful to be sprung from that bureaucratic nightmare, but …” She stopped talking when she saw his face, and then her gaze followed his to the body. “What in Thedas?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he said, feeling a rush of anger at himself for having so thoroughly cut his ties with the Ben-Hassrath. If he hadn’t, maybe he would know what was happening here.

Fairbanks, a slender dark-haired man, was right behind Morvoren. “Iron Bull,” he said shortly, by way of greeting, and then turned to Joy, letting her fill him in, which she did in a few well-chosen words.

“This one doesn’t seem to have touched anything,” she said grudgingly, gesturing at the Iron Bull.

“I’m almost tempted to bring the Divine in on this,” Fairbanks said, crouching down in front of the dead Qunari. “Surely she would know about this, if anyone would.”

“Pulling the Divine from the talks would be unnecessarily disruptive,” Morvoren said, “although there’s no indication that they’re getting anywhere today. Still, if they need a certain amount of time to bluster and posture and make vague threats, might as well let them get it out of their system as much as they can today.”

Fairbanks nodded abstractedly, leaning toward the wall to study the blood spatter. “You’re probably right. We’ll have to ask her later, though.” He glanced at the Iron Bull over his shoulder. “Any insights?”

“Not a fucking clue.”

Morvoren looked quickly up at him, gauging his mood, and he tried to nod encouragingly at her, but it was difficult to do. This was the first sight he’d had of one of his own people in years, and now the guy was dead, no chance to talk to him, no way to find out what he was doing here or why, no contacts with the Ben-Hassrath spies who were even now watching them investigate, he was sure. It pissed him off.

Although there were things that he knew that Fairbanks probably didn’t. He sighed, pushing aside his anger and frustration for the moment. “I can tell you this is a warrior, not a spy. From the armor, he’s a member of the Antaam, the Qunari military.”

Joy stepped in, apparently not wanting her find to be upstaged by someone else. “If you’ll look at his wounds, you’ll see they mostly come from a fight against someone who was using magic, but a few are from a blade.”

“So he’s hurt, he’s separated from his allies, if he has any, and he makes it here before he dies,” Fairbanks mused. “But why? Why here? Why not somewhere that he could have gotten help?”

“You don’t think he was killed here?” the Iron Bull asked. “What about the spatter?” He shook his head. “I think more likely he makes it here where he’s supposed to meet someone, he’s hurt from a fight with a mage, and then his contact turns on him and stabs him, leaving him here figuring he’s not going to be found for a while.”

“That does make more sense with the physical evidence,” Fairbanks admitted. “So you think there are more.”

“Have to be, otherwise a guy that size, in that kind of eye-catching armor, doesn’t make it this far into the Winter Palace market.”

Next to him, Morvoren gave a small humorless chuckle. “Well, here we go again. Deadly mysteries at the Winter Palace. Throw in some caprice coins and a lot of music and it’s just like old times.” She glanced at Fairbanks. “Shall we look around, or do you need to get back?”

He stood up. “No, I think Josephine can manage the diplomats. It’s likely to be all speeches and posturing the first few days, anyway, or so she told me. Let’s see if we can figure out how this guy got in.” He looked at Joy. “Can you make your way through the crowds and find out if anyone saw him?”

Joy clearly wanted to be in the thick of the investigation, not sidelined, but a glance around the room showed her that she was really the only one of them who could mingle unnoticed. With a sigh that she almost managed to hide, she nodded. “Yes, ser.” And she was gone, making her way through the crowd, the people forgetting her almost as soon as she had passed, those few who had noticed her at all.

The Iron Bull felt for the elves, almost invisible as they were throughout Thedas, but he had to admit sometimes he envied them, too. It would be nice not to be so noticeable sometimes. Although this guy here had managed to escape the attention of the crowds, somehow, and look where it had gotten him.

“Cheer up,” Morvoren said softly at his elbow. “You might get to hit things. The Exalted Council may have some excitement in store for us after all.”

She had a point: He did like hitting things. With a slightly brighter outlook, the Iron Bull followed Morvoren and Fairbanks out of the building.


	7. On the Other Side

There wasn’t much of a trail to follow, but the Qunari warrior had been stumbling a bit, so there was some indication that he had come from the palace itself—broken branches and scuff marks in the dirt in places most people didn’t walk. Fairbanks led them into the house through a shattered side window and into what appeared to be a long forgotten room where it was easier to follow the tracks because the dust lay so heavy on the ground. And then Ren stood before a structure she hadn’t expected to see again—an eluvian.

“Fantastic,” she sighed. “Just what I wanted to do today.”

“Go through an enchanted mirror? Yeah, because that always works out so well,” the Iron Bull agreed. Ren wondered if he was remembering, as she was, the time he had dragged her through the eluvian in the Arbor Wilds to get her out of Corypheus’s reach. She’d been very angry with him for that, and he had, of course, been completely unrepentant.

“We’ll have to investigate. Ashkaari, what was a Qunari doing in an eluvian?” she asked him.

“Fuck if I know. We’re not elves, and we don’t usually mess around with magic stuff. Not unless we’re very sure we’re in control of it.”

“Clearly that guy wasn’t as in control as he thought.”

“No,” the Iron Bull agreed.

Fairbanks looked at the mirror with dissatisfaction. “Someone needs to report this back to the Inquisitor,” he said.

Ren barely managed to restrain her eyeroll. “Why don’t you do that, then, and we’ll investigate what’s on the other side of the mirror?” If she hadn’t volunteered, she would have ended up having to do it anyway, she reasoned. She wondered how the Inquisition had ever gotten anything done without her. Maybe that was why they were all here at Halamshiral, because without her no one had actually been willing to go out and get their hands dirty.

“The Iron Bull?” said a familiar voice from the doorway. “And the former Inquisitor?” They turned to see Cole peeking at them from under his hat. “Do you need help?”

“Yeah, kid. Let’s do it!” the Iron Bull said, clearly feeling better at the idea of having Cole along.

The boy came the rest of the way into the room, and Vivienne was right behind him. “I brought a friend,” Cole said.

Ren raised her eyebrows. The mage was the last person she would have expected to see with Cole, or volunteering to get back to the old work. But she was glad to see her—whatever was through the mirror, a powerful mage coming along had to be a benefit. “We’re happy to see you both,” she assured them. “You ready for a fight?”

Cole nodded seriously, and Vivienne smiled. “It has been such a long time, my dears. I do hope my skills haven’t atrophied.”

Even though she could tell the mage hadn’t meant it, Ren reassured her that that didn’t seem likely anyway. 

“Right, then,” the Iron Bull said. “Let’s see where that guy came from.”

Ren glanced at him, hoping that this would turn out all right for him. He had wrestled for such a long time with the two sides of himself, she hated to see that self-doubt awakened again. Of all the things she had expected to find waiting for them at the Winter Palace, the last she had expected were the Qunari. She could only imagine what it must be like for her lover to suddenly find himself faced with someone who looked like him again, after such a long time, and have that person be dead.

The best thing for him was work, she knew. So she stood in front of the eluvian and stretched out her hand, feeling the cool glass rippling around it, and then she was through, and behind her the others. The scene before her was familiar, and yet not familiar. She recognized the blank emptiness of the Crossroads, where Morrigan had brought her long ago, but not the mirrors themselves. Of course, mostly they all looked the same. She wondered if Morrigan would have known which was which, or Solas, if he were here.

Glancing at her hand, where the Anchor burned, she wished Solas were here. He would know what to do about it, what was happening to her. Without him, she was at a loss. She clenched her fist, pushing that problem to the side. There was no time to deal with it now.

Ahead of her was a trail leading slightly up, and she saw the glint of a mirror at the top of the trail, so she led the others that way. She stood in front of the mirror, frowning at it.

“Where do you imagine it leads?” Vivienne asked. “Seheron?”

“Let’s hope not,” Ashkaari said, uncharacteristically nervous. “None of you would enjoy it there.” Under his breath he added, “I’m not sure I would, either.”

“Well, wherever it leads, it has to give us more answers than standing here,” Ren said. “Here goes nothing.”

And she stepped through, on the other side finding herself at the top of a tall half-ruined structure, with fields of grass and flowers stretching as far as she could see. The sky was blue, the clouds fluffy, and she didn’t like the looks of it at all.

“Too bucolic,” the Iron Bull growled in agreement, standing next to her. “Like the walking dead are just going to rise from the ground at any moment.”

“What a cheerful person you are, my dear,” Vivienne drawled. She poked at a panel on the wall in front of them. Nothing happened. Stepping back, she frowned at it. “Ren, could you come over here?”

Ren did, and Vivienne gestured to the panel and the mark. Sure enough, as soon as the magic from the Anchor sparked onto it, the panel opened, revealing stairs that led down into the depths of the structure. “Clever.”

“Freaky,” the Iron Bull corrected. “That thing gets more and more difficult to explain all the time.”

Ren didn’t disagree. It was sparking harder, almost the way it did when there was a rift present. Without thinking, she raised her hand and opened it as though she was closing a rift. There was a burst of light, and then her hand glowed from within, lighting their way.

“Neat trick, _kadan_ ,” the Iron Bull said, but his voice was unhappy about it. Ren wasn’t too happy herself. He reached for her hand, but she pulled it away from him, not sure if it could hurt him in its current state or not. “You all right?”

She was too disturbed by it to brush it off any longer. “I’m not sure. It feels better now, at any rate.”

Ahead of them, Cole knelt at the side of a fallen figure. “He sought the truth … and found too much.”

Ren hurried ahead, the light from the Anchor falling on the face of another dead Qunari.

“Dressed just like the one in the Winter Palace,” the Iron Bull observed. “He’s _karashok_ , a foot soldier. He must’ve been in the same squad.” He knelt next to Cole, studying the body in the green light from the Anchor. “Same wounds, too—mostly blade, but some magic.” He looked some more, adding, “Most of these cuts are on the back. He was taken by surprise.”

“This can’t have happened too long ago. The blood isn’t even dry,” Vivienne observed, tugging her skirt away from a patch of it.

“Then we go farther down and find out what’s there,” Ren said. Past the body was another staircase, and she led the way.

In the depths of the structure, they found what looked like a barracks room; the Qunari had plainly been here long enough to get comfortable. They also found Qunari, who attacked, yelling something that positively enraged the Iron Bull, who took after them with a ferocity Ren rarely saw in him these days.

She followed suit, daggers at the ready, with Cole on the Iron Bull’s other side, and Vivienne’s magic behind them. It really was just like old times, and the old patterns and habits came right back. Soon enough all the Qunari were down.

The Iron Bull was disappointed that none had survived to be questioned—mainly with himself. He should have had more control than that. But when they started shouting to kill the Inquisitor … well, Qunari or not, no one threatened his _kadan_. He studied each of the bodies carefully, looking for any clue as to what they were doing here. 

Ren brought him a letter she’d found in a footlocker, and he read it over, frowning. “This says they’re here because the eluvians connect to Halamshiral.”

“They’re aiming for the Winter Palace?” she aked him in surprise.

“Yes. This is some sort of infiltration, but there are no more details.” He looked around him at the dead bodies who looked like people he had once known—but weren’t, thankfully—and shouted at them, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“ _Kadan_.” Ren put a hand on his arm.

He gathered himself together with an effort. “They’re acting like we’re at war. This is crazy! Why would they start with Orlais?”

“Are we at war with the Qunari?” Vivienne asked him.

“I don’t know, ma’am. I wish I did.”

“Look at this.” Ren had tugged a missive out of the pocket of one of the fallen Qunari.

It was spattered with blood and torn in several places, but the Iron Bull was able to make out enough. “This says a masked and cloaked mage came upon them, using magic to awaken the spirits that dwell here and turn them against the Qunari. The mage seemed at home here, and fled before they could catch him, or her. Well, this explains something, anyway, why the bodies had both cuts and marks of magic.”

“But who was it? Not a Qunari.”

“No, that seems unlikely. _Saarebas_ are carefully monitored. Human or elf, then.”

Looking around them, Vivienne said, “From the looks of these ruins, I would imagine an elf. Perhaps a spirit who lives here, awakened by the presence of the Qunari?”

“Voice of the past, looking for a future,” Cole said softly, almost to himself.

“What’s that, kid?”

“Nothing, The Iron Bull. Pieces of a song I never knew how to sing.”

“You let me know when you have the whole melody.”

Cole nodded, his face distracted.

“I think we know as much as we’re going to know, for now,” Ren said. “We should head back and tell the others.”

“Tell them what? That the Qunari are about to attack?” It was the truth; the Iron Bull didn’t know why he felt so defensive about it.

“That seems to be the situation. Is there … can you think of anything else we should tell them?” Ren’s blue eyes were steady on his, letting it be his call.

“No. We should tell them that. I just … don’t like it.”

“And I don’t blame you.” She squeezed his arm, then led the way back up the stairs.

“I would have thought you would be enjoying this more, my dear,” Vivienne observed. “The old team back together again, ready to … kick some ass?”

He smiled, appreciating her attempt to raise his spirits. “There are a lot of other asses I’d rather be kicking.”

“Well, that goes without saying. How have you been, the two of you?”

“Good. Chargers are busy, we’ve got work when we want it and not when we don’t …” He heartily wished himself back there, listening to the pounding of the surf at the foot of the cliff where he lived with his _kadan_.

“ _Kadan_ ,” Cole observed. “It means different things. ‘Heart’ and ‘chest’ and ‘her’, and sometimes there are ropes—“

“Look, kid, don’t hurt yourself. _Kadan_ isn’t that complicated. It’s a title of honor for the woman I love." He watched her ahead of him, so beautiful and strong, and he couldn’t help smiling. He had given her his heart without knowing what he was doing—but he would do it again if given the chance, and he did, every day.

Cole smiled happily, and the Iron Bull looked over at him. “Think you’re pretty clever, do you? You still out there wherever you’ve been these past few years, helping people?”

“Yes. Towns burned, too many dead from bandits or battles. It’s harder now that they can see me,” Cole added, “but harder doesn’t mean you don’t do it.”

“And the bard? What was her name, Lizette?”

“She helps people, too. Her music helps. And I do.”

“Well, that sounds very nice for you.”

Cole nodded, looking almost surprised. “It is.”

They had reached the Crossroads now, and ahead of them Ren was hurrying toward the other eluvian. The Anchor was bothering her again, the Iron Bull could tell by the way she was holding her hand, and concern for her bubbled up in him again. He had lost the Qun, lost everything he had once been. If he lost her, too, who was he?


	8. The Burdens of the World

Ren reported back to the others at the War Table. Either it was her imagination or Morris and Fairbanks were looking at her reproachfully—as if it was her fault there was trouble! Or maybe they thought she should have had it resolved already. Morris had always imagined her to be a bit of a miracle worker, and she certainly had never been any such thing. She should have left him to deal with this whole Exalted Council mess on his own, Ren thought sourly.

Fairbanks frowned. “One dead Qunari was bad enough—now we have more, through a magic mirror, and they’re hostile?”

“They attacked on sight,” Ren confirmed.

“Are you …” Josephine cleared her throat. “Pardon me for the question, but do you think the attack could have anything to do with the Iron Bull?”

Ren nodded to indicate that she understood the question had to be asked. “The Ben-Hassrath and the Qunari in general have left him alone after that incident a couple of years ago. I see no reason why they should attack him in this way, so obliquely, and here at the Winter Palace.”

“Unless it is to draw attention to the attack.”

“But what good does it do?” Ren asked. “So they attack a former operative who has defected—why should anyone here care about that?”

Morris thought about that for a moment and then shook his head. “I can’t think of a reason.”

“Nor can I, which suggests they are here for something greater than a single lost spy.” 

“But they have no reason to attack the Inquisition,” Josephine protested.

“What reason do they have to be at the Winter Palace, or using eluvians?” Cullen asked. “None of this makes any sense from any standard viewpoint.”

Ren sighed. “So much for peace and quiet and retirement.”

Josephine’s eyes rested on her with sympathy. “You didn’t think you could throw off the burdens of the world so easily, did you?”

“I had hoped so, yes. Foolish of me.” Ren smiled.

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. “The Blight, the mages and the Templars, Corypheus. Now this. Can’t we go ten years without the world falling to pieces?”

“The important thing is to keep the Qunari from disrupting the negotiations. They are in a very delicate state,” Josephine said.

Morris looked at her. “I’m grateful to have you by my side—I can’t think of anyone else who could soothe the nobles’ ruffled feathers as well.” He turned to Ren. “And no one else who could solve this mystery as quickly and efficiently.”

He was assuming a lot, Ren thought. She didn’t even know what she was fighting, much less how to resolve it. Being the Inquisitor must be a pretty cushy job if you had someone else to foist all the real problems off on. She thought longingly of her little house on the Storm Coast, wishing she was there right now.

“We are fortunate that Orlais and Ferelden are so divided in goal and grievance,” Josephine was saying. “If it were not for that, if they could unite for even a moment, we would stand no chance whatsoever. Divine Victoria would have no choice but to support them, and we could well lose everything we have worked for.”

“We will try not to make this harder for you than necessary,” Morris assured her. “No one here underestimates the difficulty of your task. And I will be with you every step of the way.”

“I will mobilize our people here in the Winter Palace and make certain we have a guard on that eluvian,” Cullen said.

Fairbanks nodded. “And I will continue to investigate how it got here in the first place.”

They all looked at Ren, who bit back a groan. “Which means that I will go back to the Crossroads and see if I can find out what the Qunari are doing and why they attacked.”

Across the table she met Cullen’s eyes, bright and warm with sympathy and some amusement at her predicament. She wondered if he, too, was getting to the point where he would rather step down and make some kind of life for himself. It was difficult to imagine the Inquisition without Cullen—even more than herself or Leliana or Josephine, Cullen epitomized what the Inquisition stood for. If he was wearying and ready to put the work aside, maybe that was a sign the Inquisition had come to the end of its time, she thought. It bore considering.

He walked out with her, while Morris and Josephine returned to the talks and Fairbanks went off to consult with a few of his people. Neither Cullen nor Ren spoke until they had left the makeshift War Room behind and were free in the gardens.

“How is your canine friend?” Ren asked.

“Healing well. Seanna—er, young Ser Dennet—is doing wonders with him. In truth, I wonder which of us he is more bonded with.”

Ren glanced over at him and decided not to tease him about the high color in his face or his slip of the tongue. Instead, she smiled. “Do you remember the first time we came to the Winter Palace?”

He nodded. “All too well. I have already answered a good half-dozen questions about my personal life.”

“Have you? Because I thought you’d have to have one first in order to answer questions about it.”

Cullen glanced down at her, raising his eyebrows. “Was that called for?”

“I think so. Cullen, what are you doing?”

“My job?”

“You know what I mean. You’re letting your life pass you by.”

“My life passed me by long ago,” he said bitterly.

“Don’t talk like that! There’s always a way to start anew.”

He smiled. “I appreciate your optimism. But my life is beside the point. We’re here because the Inquisition made a difference, and that’s what’s important. That’s worth enduring … everything we must endure.”

“Life should be more than just endurance, Cullen.”

“So I’m told.”

“How is your family?” Ren asked him.

“They’re well. My sister is training my nephew to best me at chess and encouraging me to visit. Someday I may.”

“Yes, when someone blasts you out of your office and away from your desk.”

“Don’t joke. Stranger things have happened.”

“Such as you being beaten at chess by a child?” Ren grinned. “I imagine such a defeat would be most distressing.”

“Now, now,” Cullen protested. “He’s four! You could at least pretend I’d throw the game.”

They laughed together, easily. Ren could remember being so intimidated by this man at her side, and now here they were, colleagues and friends. The Inquisition had brought so much into her life, so many friends and companions. She was grateful for that, deeply so. “Have you had a chance to speak with Leliana?” she asked him, wondering if Cullen regretted letting their former spymaster go. The two of them had carried on their romance surprisingly quietly, and Cullen hadn’t seemed overwhelmed with grief when it was over, but Ren wondered. He kept his emotions very much to himself.

“A little. She has kept in contact—unofficially—but it was good to see her again. Arguing with her in person is far more satisfying.” His sideways look said that was as much subtext as Ren was going to get. 

Ren grinned. “I’ll bet.” She spied Fairbanks across the gardens, waving at her. “Duty calls, I’m afraid.”

“Ren.” Cullen’s voice had turned serious. “Be aware. While we have been permitted our own soldiers here, our every move is being watched. By the Orlesians, by the Fereldans, no doubt by the Qunari, possibly more. Be careful.”

“Me? Of course. Careful is my middle name.” She put a hand on his arm. “Thank you for looking out for me.”

“Always, Inquisitor.”

Fairbanks impatiently waited for her to walk toward him. Almost as soon as he thought she was within earshot, he was speaking. “We must hurry.”

“Of course. What have you found?”

“Nothing yet, but the Divine wishes to speak to you immediately.”

“The Divine … as in Leliana?”

He looked at her as though she were particularly dense. “Who else?”

“I wasn’t aware you were in contact with her.”

Fairbanks snorted. “Do you truly believe that she let go of the reins of the Inquisition when she became Divine? Her Perfection is still as involved as the demands of her time allow.”

“Huh.” Ren digested that one for a minute. She supposed it wasn’t really a surprise, and yet it was. She would have thought being Divine was more than enough work—and more than enough exercise in spycraft—for one person, even one as industrious as Leliana.

Fairbanks left her in the Divine’s antechamber, and Ren went in, finding herself seemingly alone with her former spymaster. Of course, here in the Winter Palace, alone was an illusion. “You called, Your Holiness?” she asked.

Leliana frowned good-naturedly. “The trappings are not necessary between us, my friend. Must I remind you of that?”

“Apparently you must,” Ren said cheerfully. “Am I briefing you or are you briefing me?”

“Much as I would like to have information to give you, I’m afraid I must ask for yours.”

Ren nodded, filling Leliana in quickly on what they had found on the other side of the eluvian. 

When she was done, Leliana sighed, leaning back in her chair. “The Qunari now. I must confess, I didn’t see the next trouble coming from that direction. I thought Ferelden and Orlais would be enough to occupy ourselves with for some time to come.” She passed a hand over her face. “Start and end with love, and everything will fall into place. That is the message I have tried to spread as Divine, and I thought people were beginning to listen.”

“No message is big enough to reach everyone,” Ren said. “And the Qunari are an entirely different mindset. They don’t believe in love, not the way you and I understand it.”

“Yet we know they can learn it, as your Iron Bull has.”

“One person, taken from the place he was born and set down in the midst of our customs and beliefs, is an entirely different thing from an entire nation.”

“I know that,” Leliana said, sounding a trifle irritated, and Ren realized with some guilt and some amusement that she was lecturing the leader of the Chantry. “I was merely speaking my optimism aloud.”

“I’m sure that’s not a luxury you can indulge in very often.”

“No, it certainly isn’t.”

“Do you miss being the Inquisition’s spymaster?”

“And the relative anonymity? Occasionally,” Leliana admitted. “But I believe I miss the people more than the work.”

“I hear you’ve been doing the work anyway.”

“Merely keeping my hand in, and my eye on Fairbanks. I believe men of his stamp work better if they know they are being overseen, and Morris has much to occupy his attention.”

“How are Cullen and Josephine holding up?” Ren asked her.

“Tired,” Leliana said candidly. “I believe if either of them saw an adequate replacement standing by, they would be willing to step down.”

“Yes, that’s how it seems,” Ren agreed.

A knock sounded on the door, and Leliana sighed. “Apparently our few minutes to speak like old friends has come to an end.” As Ren got up and moved toward the door, Leliana said, “Tell your Iron Bull that there have been reports of elves in the Tirashan—unusual ones, such as those you encountered in the Arbor Wilds—but no sign of Solas.”

“Solas?” Ren asked in surprise.

Leliana looked down at the Anchor. “He is worried about you.”

Ren clenched her fist. “It’s fine.”

“I’m certain it is.” Her sharp eyes belied the calm words—Ren wondered if Leliana could see in her face the pain and fear the Anchor was causing as it sparked in her hand, the frequency increasing with the passage of time.

She nodded at Leliana and left the room. Even if they could find Solas, there was no guarantee he could help. Corypheus couldn’t take the Anchor off, and he had really, really wanted to. Ren had no faith that Solas had magic greater than that which had created the Anchor in the first place. She stopped in a corner to flex her hand, the green mark now touching the base of her fingers and the edge of her palm. Would it stop, or would it just keep growing until there was nothing left of her but the Anchor?

Resolutely, she closed her fist again. That was the future. For now, the pain was bearable and she was still herself, and she had work to do. When she had resolved this Qunari mess, then she could be scared.


	9. In the Tavern

On her way out of the palace for some fresh air—with her ultimate aim being the tavern and a nice cool tankard of ale with Ashkaari—Ren ran into Cassandra. The Seeker’s face was full of thunder, and Ren couldn’t help but smile.

“Been talking to Varric again?”

“If he’s going to pull my leg so blatantly, the least he can do is write another chapter of the book, but no, he says he’s too busy for such things.” Cassandra pursed her lips in disgust. “As though this appointment as Viscount is anything more than honorary.”

“Actually, I think they’re making him work. Can you imagine, Varric doing the city of Kirkwall’s paperwork?” Ren grinned, then frowned. “Although I think that Bran person must do most of the actual paperwork.”

“You see? Varric could easily write another chapter, but he won’t, just to torment me. I do not understand why they gave him that job in the first place.”

“I think because he gave the city a lot of money … and from what I hear, no one else wanted the job.” Ren thought of Lucas Hawke, relaxing with the pirate fleet. He had gotten out from under the Viscount’s potential mantle as quickly as he could, and she had been happy to follow his example and his advice when she left the Inquisition. If only she could have disappeared from the world’s memory as successfully as he had. She glanced at Cassandra. “Tell me about the Seekers. How is the rebuilding going?”

“Slowly.” But a smile began to replace the frown on Cassandra’s face as she spoke. “I have tracked down several of my former comrades who had scattered to the winds, and we are working together to rebuild the Order as it ought to be. I have had them each read the Lord Seeker’s tome, and we are determined that there be no more such secrecy among us.”

“Good. Are you training new candidates?”

“Some, yes. We feel the need to take our time, to make certain every step is taken correctly.”

“I would have expected nothing less from you.” Ren gave Cassandra a sidelong look, wondering if the Seeker held any bitterness against Leliana for going around Ren’s official recommendation to secure the Sunburst Throne. To Ren, it made little difference who led the Chantry, so she hadn’t been overly upset at Leliana, but she knew Cassandra had made plans for what she would do once she took her seat in Val Royeaux, and she had to imagine Leliana’s decisions had been very different from the ones Cassandra would have made. She decided against opening that can of worms, however. Cassandra seemed content for the moment, and that was enough. “What do you think of this Exalted Council?” she asked instead.

Cassandra sighed. “They are frightened of the Inquisition’s power, and there is no longer a hole in the sky to remind them of why it was needed. Unfortunately, a display of that necessity would only stiffen their resolve, and to do nothing allows them to think the Inquisition is toothless and thus at their mercy.”

“You’re saying you believe there’s no good answer.”

“Essentially, yes. But if it were up to me, I would wait and see how things progress.”

“Fortunately, it’s not up to me, either.”

Cassandra raised her eyebrows. “If you say so.” They came to a path leading toward the back of the palace, and she stopped. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m taking the opportunity while I am here to study the tomes in the Palace library for whatever advice they contain on rebuilding the Seekers.”

“Happy hunting.”

With a smile and a nod, Cassandra walked off down the path, and Ren continued on in the direction of the tavern. On the way, she found Blackwall ensconced in a corner, hidden from everyone, and popped back to say hello.

As he heard her approach, the carving he was working on disappeared at his side, his carving knife held firmly as he waited to see if its use was required. When he saw Ren, she waved at him to indicate there was no need for bloodshed, and he relaxed and picked up the piece of wood again. This time, it was looking very much like Cullen’s mabari, and Ren smiled.

“Can’t spend time in Ferelden without developing an obsession with those massive mutts, it appears?”

Blackwall chuckled. “Always thought one would make a nice companion out there in the wilderness,” he admitted. 

“And in the Wardens?”

The smile faded from his face. “A few Wardens do have them, yes, but it’s dangerous for them. A dog can take the taint from the darkspawn same as a person, and there’s no Joining for a dog.”

“How has it been, being a real Warden after so long?”

“It would be nice to have known the Order in a different time,” he said quietly, leaning toward her as she sat down to avoid being overheard. “Everything’s in turmoil now, heated arguments over the future of the Order.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we tore ourselves apart. After knowing Blackwall, after seeing the Wardens at Adamant … you’d think they would remember those things as well, and not fight each other over things that don’t matter.”

“That’s not human nature. Or any nature,” Ren amended.

“No, you’re right. It isn’t.”

They sat in silence for a moment, before Ren asked, “Is it nice to be back with everyone again?”

Blackwall shrugged. “It’s nice to see you again. But it’s not the same as it was.” He smiled. “I did take the chance to have a few drinks with Sera—at least, a few that I remember, and more that I do not. I missed that girl.”

“She is unusual,” Ren agreed. “Tell me, Blackwall, what would you do about this Council?”

“Me? I’d run far and fast. But that’s not your way. Or Morris’s. And thank the Maker for that. Politics always makes my head spin.”

“Mine, too. Why else do you think I ran as far as I did?”

He looked at her, and there was an awkward silence, the image of the Iron Bull hanging between them. Apparently, Blackwall hadn’t put his affection for her behind him. Ren cleared her throat and got to her feet. 

“I’ll see you around, Blackwall.”

“I’ll be here.”

As she emerged from the bushes Blackwall was hiding behind, Dorian pounced on her. “There you are. What can you be thinking, wandering about in the bushes when someone as fabulous as I is awaiting you so breathlessly?”

“That you look good breathless?”

“Well, naturally.” Dorian smiled. “As it happens, I am largely breathless due to running and hiding from the many people who think my ambassadorship means they can broker deals with Tevinter now.”

“It doesn’t mean that?”

“My dear, it means precisely nothing.” The smile faded from his face as he continued. “I believe my father set it up initially in order to get me out of the country—nicest thing he’s ever done for me, and I can’t even thank him for it. But the rest of the Imperium didn’t object to the posting. They would love to see the Inquisition fall apart, so sending as their representative the disgraced dilettante scion of a minor noble house, one who has already shown a truly deviant inclination toward those barbarous southerners, sends just the right flip of the middle finger to everyone involved.”

“Does it?”

“Of course! If terrible Tevinter actually supported the Inquisition’s dissolution, Ferelden and Orlais would be forced to push for it to remain active on principle, just in order to avoid appearing to agree with the Imperium. This way, they appear to, at most, not care, and that way Ferelden and Orlais are free to do what they will without any concern as to whether they’re playing into the Imperium’s hands.”

“I see.” Ren shook her head. “I’ve mentioned that all this goes straight over my head, haven’t I?”

“Yes, darling, and it’s part of your charm.”

“Are you certain they weren’t just trying to get a troublemaker like you out of the country again before you seduced the wrong person?”

Dorian tipped his head back and laughed, causing heads to turn at the tables all around them. “What a lovely picture you paint of me. I almost wish I could see myself through your eyes.” He sobered again as he went on, “Sadly, I spent my time on most untroublesome things. I spent a great deal of time in Qarinus settling Alexius and Felix’s affairs. That wasn’t fun.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “It is what it is, isn’t it? And here we are, in the Winter Palace again, having such fun. I have to admit, Divine Victoria’s tailoring isn’t quite as impeccable as Leliana the Nightingale’s. Perhaps she does it on purpose, that we all forget she is such a young and beautiful woman?”

“Maybe.” Ren hadn’t really thought about it, but she could imagine that appearing rather more frumpy than she really was had some advantages to the Divine.

“I did warn you that no one would thank you for saving the world. Sadly, I’m always right.”

“I didn’t need to be thanked. Mostly I just wanted to be allowed to walk away.”

“Ah, my dear. If only we could.” Dorian looked over her shoulder. “Do tell me if you know this beautiful young man coming toward us? He seems to know you.”

Ren followed his gaze and recognized her brother Cadoc with some surprise. “My brother.”

“The young scion of the Trevelyans who created such a scandal with the hasty annulment of his marriage? You did hear about that, yes?”

“The other night. I ran into him at the theatre.”

“So that’s why you got so quiet. Do you know why?”

“A reason you’re intimately familiar with,” Ren said, watching Dorian’s eyebrows fly up with interest as he studied her brother. It was slightly less disturbing to imagine Dorian and Cadoc together than it had been to discover that the Iron Bull had slept with her sister Demelza during his merc days … but only slightly.

“Alys!”

“Ren,” she corrected automatically. She had always hated her father’s refusal to use her given name, or the shortened form of it that she preferred.

“Sorry. Old habits.” Cadoc looked inquiringly at Dorian, waiting.

“Ah, yes. Cadoc Trevelyan, Dorian Pavus.”

“The Tevinter ambassador? I’ve heard many things about you.”

“None of them anywhere near true enough, I assure you. Tell me, Cadoc, what brings you to the Exalted Council?”

“I accompanied my father, although he has little use for me now.”

“Yes, I’m familiar with those issues.” They shared a glance of understanding, and Ren’s view of the situation shifted—there was no one better for Cadoc to talk to in his current situation than Dorian, who had been through the same thing so recently.

“I was just going to get some ale in the tavern. Will you both join me?”

Dorian looked at Cadoc, raising his eyebrows. Cadoc looked hesitant for a moment, but then he nodded. “Excellent!” Dorian hooked an arm through Ren’s brother’s, leading him inside. “Let me tell you about all these extremely strange people who are fortunate enough to be acquainted with me.”  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The Iron Bull stretched his feet out, leaning back in the chair. It creaked beneath him, but held. Next to him, Krem was in the middle of a long story about the last Chargers mission he’d led, into a cave that turned out to have an opening into the Deep Roads. It had been a close shave with the darkspawn—eventually they’d thrown one of Rocky’s bombs inside the cave and set another one in the mouth to close it off so no one wandered in and got tainted from the darkspawn bits. The Iron Bull felt moderately guilty that he hadn’t been with them … but then, Krem deserved his chance to be the leader, and he was pretty good at it.

He kept hearing an annoying hissing noise behind him, keeping him from following the story. He’d heard the tale before, so missing a few words here and there was no big deal, but the hissing was getting more insistent. At last he turned his head and saw Sera sitting under the table next to him.

The Iron Bull raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“Took you long enough. You lose your hearing with the eye?” she snapped.

“You sounded like some type of anemic snake.”

“If I was a snake, there would be more screaming,” Sera pointed out, and he couldn’t really argue with that logic. “You seeing what I’m seeing?”

“Since you’re under the table and I’m not, I doubt it.”

“Boinking the ex-Inquisistiator’s sapping your brain cells. Bet it’s worth it, though.” Sera giggled.

“You have no idea.” He smiled, thinking of his _kadan_. Two years hadn’t dimmed his enjoyment of her company, in and out of bed, in the least.

“Still, you’re supposed to be all hushy-hushy spy-eye, right? Can’t believe you haven’t seen it.” She frowned at him. “Qunari assassins and everything got you distracted?”

“Maybe a bit,” the Iron Bull admitted grudgingly, stung. He was slipping if something was going on that Sera had noticed and he hadn’t. She was observant, he gave her that, and had an entirely unique perspective … but still. He was Ben-Hassrath. Or had been. He gave it a moment’s thought while Sera watched him impatiently. Ah. He had it. “This about the elves?”

Sera nodded in satisfaction. “Got it in one.”

“Very contented bunch, these servants.”

“No requests for a Jenny. No gettin’ back at the shiny nobles. That’s not right.”

“No. No, it isn’t.” He was a fool to have missed it. Contented servants meant something going on in the background. Ancient elven mirrors, elven ruins beyond the eluvian, happy elven servants? 

“You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That all this going on when the only person missing from the original Inquisition is a mysterious elf is a bit too tidy?”

“Still got a couple of those brain cells, I see.” Sera withdrew further under the table. “I’ll let you know if I spot any sign of him.”

“Good. That’s one elf I very much want to talk to.”

“Makes you the only one.” Sera poked her head out to give an exaggerated yawn. “Hope you like taking long naps.”

Solas had been a bit of a stick in the mud, true enough, but it wasn’t his conversation the Iron Bull wanted. It was his knowledge of the Breach and the elven magic that had resulted in Morvoren’s Anchor. That thing was spreading faster every day, and the amount of pain was beyond what she could even try to hide from him now. A clammy hand that felt a lot like fear was squeezing the Iron Bull’s heart, and he wanted to make it go away.

He looked up with a smile as she came in, not wanting her to know how worried he was. She probably did, anyway—he never had been able to hide his feelings from her—but he would keep trying as long as he could. Morvoren was accompanied by Dorian, and by a tall, thin young man with brown hair who the Iron Bull recognized as her brother Cadoc. He walked taller now than he had when he visited Skyhold with their father, and looked somewhat happier.

Morvoren came and sat on the Iron Bull’s lap. He felt better with the physical contact, being able to touch her and hear her voice and see the animation in her face. Cadoc looked uncomfortable in the midst of the Chargers, but Dorian sat near him and made jokes, and he unbent gradually. The Iron Bull watched that interaction with interest. Knowing that Dorian was going back to Tevinter, he wondered if there was any chance the mage and Morvoren’s brother could make something work. And then he scoffed at himself for turning match-maker. He really had been domesticated, hadn’t he?

A chair scraped next to him, and Varric sank down in it. “No one can see me behind you, right?”

The Iron Bull shrugged. “Maybe?”

“As long as it gets me away from Bran for a few minutes—Bran and his clipboard and his ever-present paperwork.”

Morvoren laughed. “I used to feel similarly about Josephine.” She leaned over in Varric’s direction and said softly, “You know, I bet if you offered to write books for the members of the council, they’d get off Morris’s back.”

Varric grunted, frowning. “You joke, but it isn’t funny. Duke Cyril keeps pestering me for spoilers from my next book.”

“Cassandra’s bitter that you aren’t writing faster.”

“Well, if a person could be scared out of writer’s block, the Seeker would be the one to do it.”

Morvoren looked at him seriously. “You can’t write?”

“Aw, Rusty, who has the time? My faithful seneschal—or warden, it’s hard to tell which—has a dozen things for me to do with every minute. Most of them excruciatingly boring.”

“Why don’t you give it up?” the Iron Bull asked him. “They handed you the crown—doesn’t mean you have to keep it.”

Varric squirmed in his seat. “Yeah … I know.”

“But you don’t want to, because deep down you really love your home city and want to do right by her,” the Iron Bull finished for him.

“That, and nobody else wants it. Most of the nobles think the viscount’s chair is cursed.”

With a loud scraping sound, Cadoc moved his chair around. “I’m sorry, are you Varric Tethras, the writer?”

“I used to be.” Varric frowned at Cadoc, then looked up at Morvoren. “Friend of yours, Rusty?”

“My brother. You met him when he came to Skyhold.” She looked shyly pleased to have her brother here, mingling with her friends, and the Iron Bull hoped with his whole heart that this guy wasn’t about to break her heart. He hadn’t batted an eye at her sitting on the lap of a Qunari, which meant there might be some hope for him.

“Tell me, Mr. Tethras, how do you think up such amazing plots?”

Varric preened, looking brighter than the Iron Bull had seen him yet. “Well, all I can say is it’s not easy.” 

“I’m sure it isn’t. I couldn’t think of anything half as unusual as what you come up with in a thousand ages.”

Morvoren rolled her eyes and exchanged looks with Krem. He’d gotten many of them following her, and before her, Hawke. But of course, no one would believe that half of what ended up in his books had a basis in reality, which was just as well.

The atmosphere in the tavern was taking on familiar tones, and the Iron Bull began to relax—until he looked up and saw in the doorway a tall, slim, elegant figure he recognized all too well. Morvoren, and Cadoc after her, both looked up and saw him as well, and each of them stiffened as he approached their table.

Morvoren got up off the Iron Bull’s lap as the man stopped in front of her. “Hello, Father.”


	10. Grasping at Any Straw

Corentin Trevelyan looked down at his youngest daughter with distaste. “Imagine my surprise at finding you here.” He glanced over his shoulder at Cadoc, raising his eyebrows. Ren’s brother flushed and seemed to shrink in his seat, as though he wanted to disappear completely.

“I’m sure I was more surprised you were here than the reverse,” Ren said dryly.

“Indeed? And yet these are halls where the powerful wield influence—you are neither powerful nor influential, so I cannot imagine what drew you to such a gathering.”

“Trust me, it wasn’t my idea.” To protest that Morris seemed to need her to make all his decisions and do all his dirty work was beside the point—she didn’t value being needed in this instance, and would have preferred to be far from here, reveling in her lack of power and influence, not to mention in her distance from her father. “And you, what stake do you have in the continued existence of the Inquisition—or in its demise?”

“I have many interests in Ferelden and Orlais, and the Inquisition encroaching upon both countries is bad for business.”

“So the father of the former Inquisitor is here to dismantle the Inquisition. I’m sure you find that irony entertaining.”

He raised his eyebrows, unamused. “I find very little about you entertaining.” His jaw twitched. “In fact, I find the utter failure of your mother’s entire line highly disappointing indeed.”

Ren didn’t mind the slur for herself, but Cadoc felt it, she could see by the way he flinched at the words. After a lifetime of being cosseted as his father’s heir, to be cast aside now for something he had no control over must be a difficult pill to swallow, and she was even more impressed at how self-possessed her brother seemed—or had, before their father appeared. But even more than the sharp jab in Cadoc’s most sensitive place, she resented his implication that Cadoc’s sexuality, her own willfulness, and their brother Gawen’s tragic early death were somehow to be laid at the feet of a mother none of them could remember. “Possibly,” she said hotly, “if you had actually done your duty as a parent by any of us, things would have been different. Instead, you sheltered the boys until they were too weak to stand up to you—or to anything or anyone—and you ignored me entirely and left me to bring myself up. If I turned out a disappointment, please, do feel free to blame yourself.”

Her father’s nostrils flared in anger. “You insolent child.”

Ren raised her left hand, showing him the Anchor. The green had started to bleed over onto her wrist now, and was creeping its way up her fingers, the spread seeming inexorable, but she wasn’t going to worry about that now. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but I saved all of Thedas from being swallowed up by the sky and defeated an ancient darkspawn magister who wanted to rule the world. Your thank you note must have gotten lost on its way to Skyhold.”

He looked down at her, pursing his lips in disgust at the reminder. “An accident, or so I understand. What were you doing, wandering the halls looking for something to steal?”

Since that was exactly what she had been doing at the Conclave when she walked in on Corypheus’s ritual, Ren let the comment pass, staring at him with as much calm as she could muster.

At last her father raised his eyebrows triumphantly, as though somehow he had achieved some manner of victory. He turned on his heel, muttered “I will deal with _you_ later” at Cadoc, and stalked out of the tavern.

There was a nearly audible sigh after he left, as though everyone in the room had been holding their breath. Ren raised her eyebrows and looked pointedly around, and those at the other tables returned to their conversations, pretending very hard that nothing had happened.

Cadoc got up from his seat, looking uncomfortable. “I-I-I … I should go.”

“I’ll go with you.” Ren walked him out. In the darkness outside, the competing scents of ale from the tavern and wisteria from the gardens confusing their senses, they stood looking at one another awkwardly. “You’ll be okay, you know.”

“Will I?”

“If you want to be. It can’t be easy to be out of Father’s good graces after a lifetime in them … or so I imagine.” Ren had never been in her father’s good graces in her life, so she really had no idea what that was like, but she was willing to pretend, for her brother’s sake. “But there’s a whole world out here waiting for you, and I can help you, if you want.”

“I—think I’d like that. Can I—“ Cadoc hesitated. “Dorian. He’s like—me?”

“Very much so, yes.”

“And … he was rejected by his father because of it?”

Ren nodded. Dorian’s father’s reaction had been worse than their father’s—he had tried to change Dorian with blood magic, which had led to Dorian fleeing the Imperium entirely. “I’m sure he can help you learn how to adjust.” She’d have to give him some warning about being gentle with her brother, she thought, not certain if Cadoc was ready for Dorian’s particular brand of awesomeness. Then again, maybe he was. She trusted Dorian to know.

“Thank you, Ren.”

“Anytime.”

She watched him walk off into the darkness in the direction of the palace, hoping she could help. He looked happier now than she’d seen him since they were children, but a lifetime under someone else’s thumb wasn’t gotten over easily.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The Iron Bull left the tavern, finding his _kadan_ standing there with her hands in her pockets, looking off into the dark. “Something out there?”

“Just watching Cadoc off. I hope … Well, it would be nice if he could learn to be comfortable with who he is.”

“That’s what we need, another Dorian on our hands.”

Instead of smiling, she looked up at him with sadness in her eyes. “Since he’s leaving us, maybe that is what we need.”

“He’s going to be all right,” he told her.

“Yes, why wouldn’t he be? He’s only going home to a country that rejected him entirely, amongst people who already had his father killed, armed with a whole lot of southern ideas and new knowledge about long-held Tevinter beliefs. What’s to worry about?” Her sarcasm was so exactly Dorian’s flavor that the Iron Bull had to chuckle. 

He put his arm around her shoulders. “He’s also going with the spy network of the Inquisition working for him, with his eyes wide open. And he needs to do it. We all have to confront our pasts in our own ways.”

“I’ve never had the slightest interest in confronting my past, and yet somehow it keeps popping up in front of me,” Morvoren said bitterly. “Sometimes I wonder how I could possibly have come from that man.”

“Do you?” the Iron Bull asked mildly. He didn’t wonder. He saw a great deal of her father in his _kadan_ —her strength of will, her certainty that hers was the right course, her refusal to back down in a fight. He would have laid pretty heavy odds that the only person Corentin Trevelyan had ever backed down for was his daughter. But Morvoren wouldn’t have appreciated the comparison, so he kept it to himself.

“As if we didn’t have enough trouble before this. You really don’t have any idea why there was a dead Qunari in the Winter Palace?”

He could tell she was grasping at straws, but it stung that she needed the reassurance anyway. “Do I look like a fucking Qunari to you?” he snapped.

Morvoren looked up at him, startled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“No, I’m sorry.” He squeezed her shoulders in a second apology. “I’m sensitive about it. If I hadn’t burned all my contacts in the Ben-Hassrath, I might have some idea what they’re up to right now. Of course, I might also be dead,” he admitted.

“I prefer you clueless to dead.”

He frowned at her. “I’m not so sure.”

Morvoren smiled. “Of course you’re not. You’re used to knowing everything.”

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Are you about ready to call it a night?”

He grinned down at her. “No, but I’m ready to go to bed.”

“As always.”

“Wearying of me already, _kadan_?” He gave a mock sigh. “I suppose I’ll just have to work harder.”

She stopped, turning to him and taking both his hands in hers. “You know that’s not true, right? There’s not a day that goes by that I’m not grateful for you and everything you are. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

The Iron Bull hesitated. He had been thinking about something for a while, not certain if it was what he wanted, definitely not certain if it was what she wanted … but he hadn’t been able to get it off his mind. “What would you say if I wanted to get married?”

Morvoren’s eyebrows flew up in surprise. “Where did that come from?”

“I don’t know. Just something I’ve been thinking.”

“I thought you felt the binding was unnecessary.” She winked at him. “The invisible binding, that is.”

“It is. That is, I know it isn’t necessary. I make the choice every day to be with you; it’s the only thing I want. But …”

She shook her head. “Next thing you know, you’ll be wanting a baby.”

“Well … I wouldn’t say no. Except that I’m not the one who’d have to carry it, so it’s not really my call.”

Morvoren tugged on his hands to bring him down so that she could look him in the eye. “Maker’s breath, you’re serious.” When he didn’t disagree, she sighed. “Ashkaari, I can’t … I mean, this is—it’s lovely that you would want to take a step so far from what you grew up with for me, but that kind of thing has never mattered to me. I ran away from marriage. Twice!”

“Arranged marriages,” he pointed out. “You love me.”

“I do love you. Absolutely. Completely. But I’m happy the way things are. I want things to go on the way they are. I just don’t think I …” She winced, yanking her left hand out of his grasp, the flare of the Anchor lighting up the space between them. Morvoren cradled it in her other hand, biting her lip as she waited for the pain to subside.

When it was gone and she was breathing normally again, the Iron Bull put his hands gently on her shoulders. “I’m not sure going on the way they are is an option anymore, _kadan_ ,” he said.

Morvoren’s mouth fell open, and she stared at him in shock that quickly turned to anger. “That’s what this is about, my damned hand? You think if you shove me in front of a Revered Mother and let her mouth platitudes at me that I don’t even believe in that it will change anything about this?” She waved the hand in his face, the palm facing toward him. “There is no fucking Maker, Ashkaari, and no magic cure. I’m not even sure there was ever such a person as Solas. Maybe we all just made him up, him and the Breach and Corypheus, too. But I am damned sure that getting married isn’t going to make this go away, and if that’s what you’re thinking, then maybe you’re not the man I fell in love with.” She shrugged his hands off her shoulders and turned away, stalking off into the dark, only the faint glow from the Anchor marking her path.

The Iron Bull stood and watched her go. Yeah, maybe some part of him that had possibly embraced the romantic religious notions of the south too fully wanted to marry her as some way of keeping her with him … but he didn’t see any other way. That thing on her hand was growing, faster all the time. The pain when it flared was increasing. He couldn’t stop it; no one he knew could stop it—and Morvoren was probably more right than she knew when she said there had never really been a Solas. Certainly there didn’t seem to be one now, at least not in any recorded area of Thedas. He was looking down a bleak, dark tunnel, at the end of which was the certain knowledge that he was losing her. Could anyone blame him for grasping at any straw he could reach in order to keep her with him?


	11. Work to Be Done

The Iron Bull woke in the morning to find Morvoren getting dressed, in quick, almost violent motions that said as loudly as any words that she was still upset. So had the fact that she hadn’t come to bed until very late at night, late enough that she had probably assumed he was already asleep.

“Come on,” she said brusquely when she saw that his eye was open. “We’ve got to go back through the eluvian today. Hopefully we can find out what’s going on and get this whole mess settled.”

He didn’t bother to point out how unlikely that was. Instead, he got out of bed and pulled on his pants—and he didn’t make a production out of how little time it took him to get dressed, either. He had been on the receiving end of these no-nonsense all-business moods before, albeit rarely, and he knew enough to keep his mouth firmly shut.

Vivienne had begged off for today, and so Dorian and Cole joined them at the mirror. Morvoren looked at it, hesitating, but there was nothing else to do and she was well aware of that fact. “All right. Let’s do this.” And she stepped through.

On the other side, once the confusion of finding himself in some place that wasn’t had cleared, the Iron Bull saw a group of Qunari in the distance, racing toward another mirror. Without thinking, he called out to them. “Hey! _Ben’abas toh hass’ost_?” None of them even turned around, which didn’t surprise him much. To have gotten a reaction, he should have insulted them, not asked the most basic question possible—“why have you come here across the sea?” If they’d wanted him to know that, they would have made the answer plain already. The others were looking at him, though, and he shrugged. “Guess they didn’t feel like talking.”

Morvoren squinted into the distance. “I don’t think that path was there before.”

“The rocks didn’t move themselves. They found a way to make a path.” Cole looked troubled.

“What’s up, kid? Seems like there’s more to the path-making in this place than meets the eye.”

The spirit didn’t respond. He started walking down the path in the direction the Qunari had gone, and the rest of them followed him.

The mirror the Qunari had gone through led them into the Deep Roads, of all places. “What the fuck?” the Iron Bull murmured to himself, looking around. His people were not meant for the Deep Roads. Underground, where you were too tall for everything and you never knew what was about to fall on your horns, was not Qunari. But the others had unmistakably come here.

Cole was touching the wall, lightly, as if he was listening. “Songs screaming far away,” he said. “It wants to wake up, but can’t remember how.” He looked around at the rest of them, frowning. “No one should be here.”

Morvoren patted him on the shoulder. “We’ll find the Qunari and make sure they get that message,” she assured him. “And in the meantime, we’ll see what they’re up to. It’s a win-win.”

“Then who loses?” Cole asked, confused.

“Hopefully no one.”

They stopped on a ledge and looked out over the Qunari’s operation. Of all things, they were mining, and in truly vast quantities. “This is … really, really big,” Morvoren said. 

“Yeah, my people don’t do small. But why? What do they want with all this?”

No one had an answer for him, and Morvoren continued on across paths strewn with rubble, picking her way carefully.

“All this mess is going to ruin my robes,” Dorian grumbled. “You owe me new ones.”

“I’ll put it on my tab, right next to all the new boots Varric insists I owe him.”

“Great. I’ll never get to the top of that list.”

They went through a doorway and down a flight of stairs and found themselves in the pitch dark. 

Cole drew in a startled breath. “It’s singing where no one can hear. But I can hear. Can I help?”

“Maybe. Don’t get lost, though,” Morvoren told him.

“Something isn’t right here,” Dorian muttered. “Dwarven buildings are lit by molten rock. That doesn’t just go out.”

“You think someone turned out the lights on purpose?”

“Well, I can’t see what use it is to have everything so dark, but it’s the only explanation that makes sense. But really, how desperate must the Qunari be to work in these conditions?”

“We have workers who don’t care about their conditions,” the Iron Bull pointed out. “That’s what they’re bred for, and if not bred, drugged.” He didn’t need light to see the look Dorian gave him.

“You have such a charming little culture.”

“Hey. Slaves and blood magic, remember?”

“And brain-washing is better?”

“I never said it was better. I just said both of our cultures have things to be ashamed of.”

Dorian was silent, and then he said, “Good point.”

Near them, the Iron Bull saw the green light flare in Morvoren’s hand, and he heard the little moan of pain she could no longer hide. He found himself gritting his own teeth and clenching his own hand in sympathy with her, in a desire to be able to do something to take her pain away. But he couldn’t, and her spasm passed, but the green light remained.

“Boss, your hand’s doing that thing again,” he pointed out.

“No kidding,” she snapped, clearly not over her displeasure with him. “On the bright side,” she added in a different tone, “maybe the Anchor can make itself useful down here.” She held it up, and its light reflected off the walls. “Handy trick. Wish I’d had it in the Deep Roads on the Coast.”

“You and me both,” Dorian said, moving up next to her and wrapping an arm around her waist. His support she would accept today, and the Iron Bull tried not to be jealous of or threatened by her dear friend.

They moved on ahead, through doorways and chipped away-cave entrances, the rubble shifting under their feet. The Iron Bull flinched at a low-hanging stalactite, grunting with annoyance. “I keep feeling like I’m gonna bang my horns on this crap.” He had lost a chunk off the left one in the fight with the Titan, far down below the Deep Roads several years ago; he would prefer not to lose any more.

“Bull, are you at all concerned about fighting your people?” Dorian asked him.

“Not my people. Not anymore. This is my people.” He gestured to the mage, and the spirit, and the red-head with the glowing hand. “And whatever those people are doing, I’m ready to stop.” It wasn’t quite that simple, and he was fairly sure they all knew it, but … it was that simple, too, and he was fairly sure they all knew that as well. He grinned at Dorian. “No need to worry—unless we run into Venatori.”

Dorian rolled his eyes and turned his back ostentatiously—but the Iron Bull knew Dorian detested the Venatori as much as it was possible for a person to detest his own countrymen, so the gibe only stung him a bit.

Ahead of them, Morvoren held up a hand. “There’s someone up ahead. I think … I think he’s human.”

“The Qunari do have their converts,” the Iron Bull reminded her. “Be careful.”

“Of course,” she said dismissively, but she was already moving purposefully toward the circle of light of the campfire ahead.

The man at the fire scrambled back toward the shadows as he saw them approaching, then stopped, staring at Morvoren. “Stay back! … Wait. Your hand. Are—are you the Inquisitor?”

“Former Inquisitor,” she snapped. “And maybe I should be asking the questions, since it’s rather odd to find a human down in the Deep Roads at all, let alone surrounded by Qunari.”

The man came toward her, lowering his voice. “Look, we don’t have much time. Please … what the Viddasala is doing—you have to stop her.”

The Iron Bull moved closer to the man, certain that he must have heard wrong. “The Viddasala? That’s a high-ranking Ben-Hassrath. She specializes in magic—finding, studying, stopping.”

“Not anymore.” The man hesitated. “No, I really don’t care whether you serve Fen’Harel or not. Someone has to stop her.”

“That’s not the first time I’ve been accused of being in league with Fen’Harel. Why do the Qunari think that?” Morvoren asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. The Viddasala says it, and whatever she says, the rest of the Qunari accept as fact. There have been agents of Fen’Harel all over the Crossroads, causing trouble. Sabotage, making spirits attack us … You never know where they’ll come from or what they’ll do. I guess we all just assumed the Inquisition was part of that, that you came here because Fen’Harel told you to.”

“You keep saying ‘we’. Who are you exactly?” Dorian asked.

“The name’s Jerran. Ser Jerran, in fact. I was a Templar in Kirkwall, until … well, until I joined the Qun.” He shuddered. “Kirkwall was … madness. Chaos. The Qunari were like the eye of a storm. Calm. Something you could anchor yourself to. I thought … I stand for order and discipline, protecting the innocent from magic. When Meredith went mad, I thought I could find that order and discipline here, but this plan … it’s as mad as Meredith ever was.”

“What do you mean? What’s changed? Is the Viddasala no longer doing her job?” the Iron Bull asked. A rogue Viddasala was no joke. That was a lot of intelligence and a lot of power to have loose and uncontrolled.

“It’s almost a complete reversal, actually. This place … it’s a lyrium mining and processing center.”

“What do the Qunari need with lyrium?” Dorian asked.

“For … have you ever heard of _saarebas_?” Jarren looked up at the Iron Bull. “Of course you have.”

“’Dangerous thing,’” the Iron Bull translated. “The Qunari word for mage.”

“Dangerous thing,” Dorian repeated. “I am, aren’t I?”

“Yes, of course. Very dangerous.” Morvoren patted him on the arm.

Jarren nodded. “Even as a Templar, I’d never seen anything like the power a saarebas can unleash. And now Viddasala is giving them lyrium. A _lot_ of lyrium. It’s part of something she calls ‘Dragon’s Breath’.”

“That’s a load of crap!” the Iron Bull exploded. “There’s no way the Viddasala would let any saarebas within a thousand feet of lyrium.”

“But she has! And there’s more to it than that, but I couldn’t find out what. The Qunari don’t like it when you ask too many questions.”

Well, that was true enough. But something about this guy felt wrong to the Iron Bull. He was too willing to spill his secrets, and what he had to say was … impossible. Unless it wasn’t, in which case it was really damned scary. The Iron Bull would vastly have preferred impossible.

“Do you know why there are elven mirrors in the Deep Roads, or how the Qunari found them, or how they learned to use them?” Morvoren asked.

Jerran shook his head. “I wish I knew. Maybe the elves used to mine here, too. Maybe some Qunari stumbled across the mirrors? I can tell you that this place is close to … something like a lyrium spring. The more we mine, the more there seems to be.”

“Qunari can’t mine lyrium,” the Iron Bull pointed out. “It kills anyone who tries, other than dwarves.”

“I know. It killed the Qunari at first. But Qunari workers have a discipline only Tranquil can match.”

And for much the same reason, the Iron Bull thought, but he kept that one to himself. 

Jerran continued, “I guess they’re quick learners, too, because they figured out how.”

“And you? What are you doing down here?” Dorian asked.

“The Qunari wanted me to teach them everything I knew about lyrium.” He looked around to see if everyone there understood why a Templar knew so much about lyrium, which of course they did, so he went on. “Where it comes from, everything it can do, how we put it to use … I knew enough from my time in the Order, or I thought I did, but … there’s so much more to lyrium than we ever knew. The Qunari figured out more about it. I’m not sure how. Maybe they got to the Carta.”

“And the name of the plan is ‘Dragon’s Breath’?” Dorian asked. He looked up at the Iron Bull. “Here I thought it was just you, with the fancy over-complicated translations, but apparently you come by it honestly.”

The Iron Bull shrugged. ‘Dragon’s Breath’ undoubtedly had some meaning that none of them were going to want to hear.

Jerran raised his eyebrows in response to Dorian’s question. “You know that most dragon’s breath destroys everything in its path, don’t you?”

Morvoren turned around and smiled at the Iron Bull. They knew quite a few things about dragon’s breath. He smiled back, relieved that she appeared to be putting aside last night’s anger. A tension in his chest that he hadn’t even been aware of eased, and he suddenly felt as though he could breathe much better.

“She said it would ‘save the south,’” Jerran continued. “That can mean only one thing: an invasion.”

And just like that, the free breathing was gone. No one wanted a Qunari invasion. No one.

“Look, this mine is the only source of lyrium the Qunari have. They’re using gaatlok, the explosive powder in the round casks, to mine, so they don’t have to touch the raw lyrium. If you get the primers from central supply, you can prime the gaatlok and detonate it. The mines will go up in flames.”

Dorian looked around uneasily. “Once things start exploding, every Qunari down here will notice.”

“Yes. They will,” Cole spoke up unexpectedly. “Deepstalkers and cave-ins will help, but the others will come at the sign of trouble.”

“Yeah. Exactly,” Jerran agreed. He looked up at the Iron Bull again. “You’ve got to find the Viddasala and end this war before it begins.”

The Iron Bull nodded, convinced at last that this guy was telling enough of the truth to be taken seriously. 

“There’s no telling how bad things will get when I destroy the mine,” Morvoren said to Jerran. “You’d better get moving.”

He looked around in fear, probably knowing as well as the Iron Bull did how hard it was to leave the Qun. “I will,” he said. “Good luck, Inquisitor.”

As Jerran disappeared the way they had come, Morvoren turned to the rest of them. There was a light in her blue eyes that the Iron Bull loved to see. His _kadan_ was at her best when there was work to be done.

“Come on,” she said. “We have a lyrium mine to ruin.”

Dorian shook his head. “A Qunari invasion. Well, we’ve all known it was coming someday. At least, Tevinter has. I’ve lived with this threat all my life. If it escalates, it won’t just be Tevinter fighting them. Maybe all of us together have a fighting chance.”

None of them looked at the Iron Bull and he didn’t offer his thoughts, because they were all pretty damned gloomy. 

“Well, taking out this mine has to help, so let’s do it.” Morvoren led them into the dark, the glow of her hand lighting the way.


	12. Gaatlok

The mines were dark and vast and broken—the Qunari had not been gentle with the dwarven-built walls, breaking through wherever it struck their fancy. And the expanse of the operation took Ren’s breath away. How had the dwarves allowed this? Were the Qunari doing this under their noses or with their agreement? She had to imagine the first one, but surely the dwarven stone sense would have something to say about this much lyrium being removed. Although she had no idea where in Thedas they were, thanks to the eluvians, so it was possible they were too far from the nearest dwarven settlement for anything to be done.

“All this lyrium,” Dorian said softly, looking around. “If the Qunari wanted, they could make a fortune.”

“To spend on what?” the Iron Bull asked him. “A true Qunari has nothing but contempt for all your southern goods.”

“Then I suppose your unholy love of ale should have been your first clue that you weren’t a true Qunari.” 

Ren glanced swiftly up at her lover’s face, to see if the barb had anchored in him, but he nodded, conceding the point. “Probably should have been.”

“The stone sings,” Cole said. “It sings, but the wrong song, the wrong blood. It scares them. They don’t know how we stand it.”

Dorian snorted. “Well, if we could convince them to stop murdering my people for a few years, I’m open to a cultural exchange.”

The Iron Bull pointed toward a set of Qunari blocking the path up ahead. “You want to propose that to them, or shall I?”

“They don’t appear to be in a talking mood.”

“Good. I’m not either.” And the Iron Bull charged.

As he swung his blade at the line of Qunari, and Dorian readied a spell, a voice whispered sibilantly out of the darkness just behind Ren’s left ear: “You are blind, Inquisitor.” She turned, raising her arm with the Anchor on it, feeling a cold blade slice into her skin, as Cole cried out and ran toward her.

The person who had cut Ren turned to face Cole, and she saw to her surprise that they were nearly the same size. A human Qunari convert, then.

Cole took him down, with a timely bit of assistance from Dorian, and then they joined the Iron Bull in taking out the rest of the Qunari, while Ren clutched her arm to her, the fingers of her right hand clamping down on the artery to slow the bleeding until Dorian could get to her. 

He clucked his tongue over the wound as he was healing it, taking some elfroot leaves out of his satchel and mashing them into a paste that he smeared on before applying the bandages. “That’s nearly to the bone. If he’d swung a bit harder, he’d have come close to taking your hand off.”

Ren chuckled darkly. “Given how much trouble the Anchor’s been lately, maybe that would be the best thing for me.”

The Iron Bull put a hand on her shoulder, looking down at her thoughtfully. “Are you all right? Should we go back?” he asked at last.

“No, no. I’ll be fine. Let’s get this done.”

“All right, boss.”

Dorian was standing near them, giving them some privacy, and when Ren pulled away from the Iron Bull, still feeling the heavy weight of his worry on her, she joined him. Dorian’s worry was there, too, and it had some weight, but not the heft of the Iron Bull’s.

“This really is such a well-oiled operation the Qunari have down here,” he said. “I think we should explode it, don’t you?”

“Well, if you like. I was thinking about stepping out for a drink.” Ren grinned at him.

“Time enough for that later—a well-earned reward for our hard work in the Deep Roads.” 

Behind them, the Iron Bull groaned. “Why is it always the damned Deep Roads?”

“Because we like to torture you, of course.”

“Should’ve guessed. Sodding Vint.”

To no one’s surprise, the center of the operations where the primers for the gaatlok were stored was well-guarded, including a powerful saarebas who was more than likely hopped up on lyrium. Not exactly what Ren considered a good time. She remembered fighting the Sha’Brytol in the forgotten caves beneath the Deep Roads the last time they had been down here; she hadn’t enjoyed that, either. Although then she hadn’t had a massive throbbing gash on her arm messing with her strikes. The pain didn’t bother her as much. The Anchor was increasingly painful on its own, and she was learning to live with that.

Eventually they managed to take down the saarebas and the other Qunari with him, and they all took a much-needed break, nearly exhausted with their efforts down here. And none of them had any illusions as to what would happen when they started blowing up the gaatlok—Qunari would come from everywhere.

So they took a break, taking the opportunity to drink some water and eat some dried meat and fruit they’d brought along, talking little, conserving their energies for what lay ahead.

At last they were ready. Dorian unwrapped the bandages around Ren’s arm, adding more elfroot paste before wrapping it back up again, and they began retracing their steps to the closest pile of gaatlok barrels. The Iron Bull, as the one with the greatest expertise, knelt before the barrels and began attaching the primer.

Cole wandered the dig site, frowning down at the hastiness of it. “Tricks and trials so the singing stones don’t kill them. They don’t like the song—it hurts their heads and makes them think of things they wish they didn’t want.”

“Like you?” Ren asked the Iron Bull softly as he stood up. 

He shook his head impatiently, grabbing her by the uninjured arm and hauling her away from the barrels, shooing Dorian and Cole on ahead. 

The blast rocked the floors beneath them, the reverberations echoing throughout the cavern.

“That’ll get ‘em,” the Iron Bull growled. “Let’s get the next one done before company shows up.”

They ran for the next pile, and the Iron Bull knelt to affix the primers. While he did so, Cole paced back and forth, running his fingers along the stone wall. 

“Some of the stones here are pretty,” he said quietly. “I should get some for Lizette.”

Ren rolled her eyes. Even as a human, Cole was still pretty detached at times.

Dorian shook his head. “I still can’t quite wrap my head around the idea of you having a lady friend.”

Cole looked at him indignantly. “I am human now. Why shouldn’t I?”

“Oh, no reason, it’s just … not what I’m used to.”

That mollified Cole somewhat. 

“You let me know if you need any tips,” the Iron Bull said over his shoulder.

“She’s kind, and her voice helps people … and her bodice smells good.” Cole looked eagerly at Ren, as if for her approval.

“Can’t ask for anything more than that, can you?” she asked, keeping an anxious eye on the stairs they had come up. 

“Wait, I shouldn’t have said that last part, should I?”

The Iron Bull got to his feet. “It’s fine, kid. You’re among friends. Now get moving, before you’re among enemies.” 

They scrambled for the third set of barrels, the second set blowing up behind them in another giant concussion.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but I’m hearing things that don’t bode well for us,” Dorian said as the Iron Bull began attaching the primers to the barrels.

Ren listened. “They’re coming. You have to hurry,” she said to the Iron Bull.

“Don’t you think I hear them, too? But making me nervous isn’t going to help.”

“It’s not just the approaching oxmen,” Dorian said. “Can you hear that water rushing? We must have broken through a wall with the first blast and exposed some kind of underground spring.”

“It’s coming down. Like rain,” Cole observed.

“Well, that’s not good.”

“Look,” the Iron Bull said, “if you’ll all shut up and get your asses up that ladder, we can get out of here faster and you won’t be distracting me so much.”

He made a good point, so they did as he said—to find their Qunari opponents waiting for them at the top. Dorian had gone first, and with ice and lightning he managed to hold back the attackers until Cole could reach the top of the ladder. Ren was climbing slowly due to the pain in her left hand, but at last she made it as well, finding Cole and Dorian nearly overwhelmed.

Behind her she heard the heavy breathing of her _kadan_ as he hurried up the ladder in his turn. “Brace yourselves!” he shouted. 

Ren crouched down as a Qunari blade whistled over her head, and then the blast came. This must have been the biggest stockpile of the gaatlok, because it felt as though the entire mine shook around her. She scrambled forward on her hands and knees, heedless of the pain in her hand and arm. The Qunari hadn’t been prepared; many of them had fallen, a few over the side. That gave her team an advantage—they could get out of the midst of the fray and regroup before they were attacked again.

It didn’t take the Qunari long to gather themselves and relaunch the attack. But this time Ren and her people were ready for them. She didn’t miss the fact that the Iron Bull was placing himself before her more aggressively than usual due to her injury. For once, she didn’t mind. The Anchor was spitting and sizzling and the wound on her arm ached and itched as the elfroot did its work.

At last the Qunari were down, and Ren and the others were running for their lives as the mine began to crumble around them. Hastily built and poorly maintained, it hadn’t been able to stand under the shock of the explosions—and deeper within the mine, Ren could hear more explosions as the fires reached whatever gaatlok they hadn’t been able to find. Water rushed down from above them, running beneath their feet, making their footing treacherous.

Just past the room where they had met Jerran they paused for a moment next to his body. There were two dead Qunari near him—he had gone down fighting, and that was something. 

“He didn’t make it very far,” Ren said softly.

The Iron Bull grunted. “Farther than I thought he would.”

“Well, we won’t make it much farther than this if we take time to mourn his passing,” Dorian snapped. “Let’s move!”

Water was pouring down the steps now in an unrelenting stream; it was difficult to force themselves up through it. Ren was grateful for the grip the Iron Bull kept on her good arm.

At last they stumbled out of the eluvian and sank onto the floor in the back room where it was being kept, panting heavily.

“So,” Ren gasped at last, “who wants to tell Josephine and Cullen that we’re probably at war with the Qun?”

The others all looked up at her incredulously, and she rolled her eyes. Her job, again?

“Come on. Anyone?”

“You’re on your own, _kadan_. I think I’m the last person anyone wants to hear that particular piece of news from.”

“And no one would believe me,” Dorian pointed out. “My people’s antipathy toward the Qunari is well known; everyone would think this was a ploy to get the south to join in our omnipresent war with them.”

“Hey, that’s not a bad idea,” the Iron Bull said.

“Yes, if it would work. Which it wouldn’t.”

Ren looked at Cole and sighed. No one would believe him, either. “They’re going to kill me.”

“The Inquisition, the Orlesians, the Fereldans, or the Qunari?” Dorian asked.

Groaning, Ren banged her head slowly against the wall. “Who knows? At this point, I might as well flip a coin.”


	13. No One Else

Ren headed straight for the War Room, after dispatching one of the soldiers on watch near the eluvian to gather the Inquisitor and his team. They arrived there shortly after she did, full of questions that she refused to answer until everyone was there. 

Once they were all assembled, she laid out the Qunari’s plan, as far as she knew it, watching their faces pale as they began to understand the magnitude of the situation that had begun with the discovery of the dead Qunari in their midst.

“Dragon’s breath?” Fairbanks frowned. “What does that mean?”

Ren shrugged. “The Qunari do enjoy their metaphors.”

“But what does it mean?” Morris repeated urgently. “What is the dragon’s breath?”

“Who knows?” Cullen said, sighing. “Qunari agents moving through eluvians to attack the south is bad enough already.”

“And what does Fen’Harel have to do with anything?” Josephine asked. “Why would they accuse us of being in league with a dead elven god?”

Looking around the room, Ren regretted that the Inquisition’s much-vaunted inclusion had not extended to its upper echelons. Humans, all. If they had an elf amongst them, perhaps they would know where Fen’Harel came in. She glanced down at her palm, at the sparkling green that was starting to peek out from the edge of her glove. If they had that particular elf with them, maybe he would be able to give her some answers about this thing, too.

But there was no time to worry about her hand, or her own personal safety. The fate of the world was at stake—again. “I don’t think it matters why the Qunari think we’re tied to Fen’Harel; all that matters is stopping them.”

“On the bright side, if we save the Exalted Council from this ‘Dragon’s Breath’, they’ll have a much harder time disbanding the Inquisition,” Cullen offered. He glanced at Josephine for confirmation of the suggestion.

“We must find out what it is, first,” she responded. 

“For now, we should concentrate on our lead, this Qunari leader, the Viddasala,” Fairbanks said.

Before he could go further, the door opened and both Arl Teagan and Lord Cyril came in, their faces like thunder. Or, rather, Teagan’s was. Cyril’s face was still hidden behind his mask, but his body language shouted his tension and unhappiness loud and clear as he stepped toward them.

“My apologies, Lady Josephine, Inquisitor, everyone. There has been an … incident with one of your soldiers.”

Ren looked at Morris; everyone else looked at her. She repressed a sigh and a roll of the eyes with some difficulty. “What kind of an incident?”

“How dare you?” Teagan demanded, as if she had not spoken. “It is bad enough that the Inquisition chose not to inform the Exalted Council of the Qunari corpse …”

Cyril nodded. “Orlais would have been happy to have offered whatever help was necessary in the matter.”

Teagan ignored him, too. “Now your own guards are attacking servants? You have overstepped your bounds!”

Ren looked to Morris again. He cleared his throat. “I’ll look into it.”

Teagan did not look in the least mollified by the tepid promise.

Ren had had enough. “A plan to seize power in Ferelden would hardly begin with soldiers scuffling in Orlais,” she pointed out. “Perhaps what you’re upset about is that more important matters are occurring at this Council than your petty grudge against the Inquisition because we did your work for you, ousting the Tevinters from Redcliffe and saving your people from the mages and Templars, while you cowered in Denerim?” She pushed past him while he sputtered, looking for the words. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. Saving your life—again. Do let me know if you’d like me not to?” Turning, Ren looked up into the Arl’s eyes, waiting. He was fuming, the rest of the room shocked and no doubt unhappy with her, but he didn’t speak. “As I thought.”

And she left them there, feeling moderately guilty as she heard Josephine’s smoothest tones behind her, attempting to soothe the Arl’s ruffled feathers. Still, though, if Morris wouldn’t stand up for himself, or for the Inquisition, they couldn’t blame her for doing so.

Out on the grounds, a waiting soldier led her to the site of the scuffle. The Inquisition scout who had been with the Iron Bull yesterday was standing there, looking defiant, along with another elf in Orlesian livery, who looked rather ashamed.

“What’s going on here?” Ren demanded.

The soldier who had brought her said, “The Orlesians tried to take one of our people. We’ve secured the area.”

Ren looked at the Inquisition scout—Joy was the name, she remembered. “What happened here?”

An Orlesian soldier pushed his way between them. “This is the Winter Palace! You cannot simply seize control when one of your guards attacks a servant.”

“Is that what we did?” Ren was growing impatient to cut through all the anger and bluster and get to the part that actually required her input.

“The Inquisition is handling this,” the Inquisition soldier answered the Orlesian, ignoring her interjection. “When some noble commits a crime of fashion, you can take over.”

“Hey!” Ren snapped. “That isn’t helping anything.” She put a hand on each of their shoulders and moved them out of her way, approaching Joy. “What happened?”

“I only asked him what he was doing,” Joy protested, although Ren didn’t believe it was quite that simple.

The Orlesian servant frowned at her. “You mean that when I refused to bow to the Inquisition’s dogs, you attacked me!”

Ren sighed. “Attacked?”

They both looked at her, and both of the soldiers did, too.

She looked back at them, fighting the urge to have them all thrown in jail.

“How would you like us to handle the situation?” the Inquisition soldier asked her.

Ignoring him, she looked over at the two elves. Next to the Orlesian, she saw an oddly familiar barrel. When someone started to speak to her again, she raised a hand for silence, approaching the barrel and crouching down next to it. As she had thought, it was gaatlok.

She stood up, looking at the Orlesian servant. “That barrel. Where did it come from?”

“I was ordered to bring wine for the guests.”

“Does that look like a wine barrel to you?” she shouted.

He blanched at her tone. “I … uh … I thought it was a new vintage.”

Ren rolled her eyes. 

“You’re lying,” Joy said.

The Orlesian soldier bristled. “Your Inquisition soldiers are completely out of control!”

The Inquisition soldier got in his face. “No, we are _in_ control. Keep talking, and you’ll find yourself in chains.”

Ren sighed. Was there really no one else who could have dealt with this? She tried to think what Josephine would have done, or Cullen. Cullen would throw the servant in jail; Josephine, on the other hand, would put the Inquisition scout somewhere that they could talk more privately and thus make it look like they were being tough on their own. She decided for once to throw Josephine a bone.

“I apologize for my guard’s actions. My people will take her into custody, with your permission.” 

Taken utterly by surprise, the Orlesian soldier stammered a response. “As you say, Inquisitor. Lord Cyril will hear about this.”

She decided not to bother correcting him as to her current status. “I imagine he will.”

The Orlesian soldier stalked off. Joy approached Ren with a piece of paper. “I found this by the barrel. I can’t read the language.”

Ren took the paper. “Take her into custody,” she said to the Inquisition soldier, irritated that Joy was acting as though she wasn’t in some kind of trouble, undermining what Ren was trying to do here. 

“But the paper!”

“Yes. I have the paper. It’s in Qunari. I can take it from here.”

Joy began to protest, but she was hauled away. Ren didn’t entirely trust the elf, so she didn’t mind having her somewhere that an eye could be kept on her.

She looked at the paper in front of her, but before she could make heads or tails of it, she felt an odd sensation down her spine, as though she was being watched. Turning, she saw someone waving to her from a nearby pavilion. Following the beckoning hand, she found Leliana waiting for her there, wearing regular clothes that made her almost unrecognizable. In truth, probably all she had to do was doff the hat and robes, these days.

“Did you resolve the problem with the scout?” Leliana asked.

Ren shook her head impatiently. “She’s the least of our problems. That barrel over there? Gaatlok. Someone smuggled gaatlok into the Winter Palace.”

“At least now we know the true extent of the Dragon’s Breath.”

“You heard about that?”

Leliana smiled. “Dearest Ren, don’t you know by now that sooner or later, I hear everything?”

Ren nodded to acknowledge the truth of the statement. “You think the gaatlok is the Dragon’s Breath?”

“Of course. A surprise attack, even through the eluvians, would have met fierce resistance. But this … no doubt they counted on us not noticing until it was too late. And then, if everyone at the Exalted Council died in an explosion, the south would be rudderless, vulnerable to attack. Quite frankly, this is what Corypheus should have done after the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes: an attack as swift and unstoppable as the breath of a dragon.”

“This note was found near one of the barrels, as well.” Ren proffered it to Leliana, who looked it over.

“That is Qunari?”

“Yes. I’ve picked some up from Bull over the years—although he says my accent is atrocious.” Ren frowned at the page, picking out the symbols she knew. “If I’m reading this correctly, it’s an order for positioning the gaatlok in the palace, and then reporting to the Viddasala in the morning ‘through the mirror marked by a bookcase’. That’s the one we have hidden, I believe.”

“I don’t know of any other eluvians in the Winter Palace.” Leliana looked closely at Ren, her blue eyes penetrating. “Are you—all right with all of this?”

“You mean fighting the Qunari with a Qunari at my side?”

Leliana smiled. “I forget how forthright you are. After two years of being the Divine, it truly is refreshing.”

Returning the smile, Ren nodded. “I’m fine. He’s fine. He knows who he is … and who he isn’t. I would trust him with my life. I have, more times than I can count.”

“Good. So you will go through the mirror and meet the Viddasala, and I will have agents locate the gaatlok barrels and remove them safely. I will also send word to my foreign contacts—we must see where else this dragon could strike.”

Ren considered the implications of that. “Maker’s blood.”

“Exactly. If they are organized enough—and we know that the Qunari excel at organization—they could cripple all of Thedas in a single strike.”

“Why is no one ever satisfied with what they have? If fewer people wanted to take over the world, we could all get a lot more sleep.”

Leliana chuckled. “Which is why you made a good choice when you stepped down.”

“Did I step down? Everyone’s still looking to me.”

“For precisely those reasons. You are forthright, you are blunt, you get things done, you do not dither. All of which make you a terrible politician—but an excellent Inquisitor.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.” Leliana smiled, squeezing Ren’s arm. “And now I will go take care of those gaatlok barrels before they have a chance to be hidden.”

Ren watched her go, missing the days when they all worked together toward a straightforward goal, and longing for a time somewhere in the future when she could be left alone to live her life in peace.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The Iron Bull caught up with his _kadan_ at dinner, the two of them having a quiet meal with Dorian and Krem and Flissa while Morvoren caught them up on more publicly reportable events of the day. From the glances she cast at him, he imagined there was more that he would find out privately later.

He was more concerned about the way she kept her left hand hidden in her lap, the way the muscles of her left arm twitched as if she was clenching and unclenching it beneath the table, and the bandage on her arm from the wound she had taken in the Deep Roads. He wondered what she would think of the admittedly rather extreme idea he had come up with. That she wouldn’t take it well was a given—but would he be able to bring her around to his way of thinking? He didn’t know.

Dinner, even with some of their best friends, seemed to take forever, and when Morvoren seemed ready to go drink with the Chargers, he tugged her away. “Not tonight. Tonight I want you all to myself.”

She misread his tone—or she was intentionally taking it in a different way than he had meant it—and she chuckled low in her throat. “Well, I like the sound of that.”

He forced a smile, wishing he could feel as light as she seemed. But looking closer into her eyes, he saw she was forcing it, too, and was even more determined to get her alone.

They walked back to their room, lost in their own thoughts. Once the door had closed behind them, the Iron Bull kicked off his boots and dropped his pants and stretched out on the bed, naked, with a sigh of relief. It was a smaller bed than the one they shared on the Storm Coast, but it held his weight, and that was really all he could ask.

“That didn’t take long.”

“Those people out there make me want to parade around naked all day.”

“I imagine half of them wish you would.” She bent over him, kissing his mouth and then his chest before pulling back to unbutton her vest. 

“So?”

“So?” she echoed.

“So what didn’t you tell the others?”

“The War Room meeting was interrupted when they found a gaatlok barrel on the grounds.”

He sat up. “Gaatlok? Here?”

Morvoren nodded. “Leliana was going to look for more, and send messages around. She thinks maybe they were trying for a coordinated attack.”

“Fuck. Yeah, they probably were. Glad you found it, then.”

“I didn’t. It was your elf girl from yesterday.”

“Joy?”

“That’s the one. She’s a bit too on-the-spot for my taste.”

He grinned. “You just don’t like her because you know I find Starkhaven accents sexy.” Then, less facetiously, “You’re not wrong, though. There’s something about her that’s … off.”

“Descriptively put, but yes, that’s how I felt.” She hung the vest and the kerchief she wore on the back of a chair and sat down to unlace her boots.

“What else?” 

“Joy gave me a note. She said she found it near the barrel, but …” She shrugged. “Who knows. It was in Qunlat; purported to be from the Viddasala to a soldier, said to meet her on the other side of the eluvian tomorrow after the barrels were put out.”

“So, a trap.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured.” Morvoren set one boot aside, stripping off her sock and rubbing her foot, before starting on the laces of the other one.

“You’re not going.”

She looked up at him in surprise. “Who else would?”

“Fairbanks? Morris?”

Morvoren laughed bitterly. “Yes, I can see them going up against a cadre of Qunari headed by a Viddasala.”

“I’d rather see them do that than you.”

“What, you’re serious? After all we’ve been through?” She set the second boot aside and leaned forward, staring at him.

“Fuck yeah, I’m serious. You’re in no condition to face down a Viddasala.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m in perfectly—“ She gasped as he reached for her left hand, pressing his thumb firmly in the middle of the Anchor. “I’m fine,” she ground out between her clenched teeth, very evidently in pain.

“Yeah? How much has it grown today?” He knew precisely how much, but he held her gaze anyway waiting for a response.

“An inch. At least,” she said at last, reluctantly.

“You can’t go up against the Viddasala.”

“There’s no one else. Even in this condition, I’m the best chance we have, and with you and the others behind me, I know I can do it. More than that, I know I have to try.” She paused, swallowing, and looked at him, her blue eyes wide and soft. “Ashkaari?”

“What?”

“Is there any part of this that’s about you and your people? I would understand if it was,” she added hastily.

“No. We’ve been over this. You’re my people. You and Krem and the others. Just because they look like me doesn’t mean I would choose them over you—not anymore. Maybe I never would have.” He tugged her closer, until she was in his arms, standing before him as he sat on the bed. “This is about me not wanting to lose you. I don’t know—I don’t know what I would do.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” She kissed him, soft and sweet, and he wrapped his arms around her and lay back across the bed, pulling her with him. He tasted her mouth thoroughly, his hands moving down to find the buttons of her shirt and work them open.

Morvoren’s hands were on his chest, fingers tracing the edge of a scar there and then sweeping down his sides and over his flanks, the touch light and delicate and carrying fire with it. She straddled him, her mouth exploring where her hands had been.

“ _Kadan_ ,” he whispered, his voice ragged, his fingers tangling in her shining red hair as she took him into her mouth, her tongue tracing patterns that he tried to follow until he was lost in the pleasure she gave him.

When he had come down from the clouds, he stretched her out beneath him, his hands capturing her wrists and holding them above her head, admiring the way that made her breasts move. His free hand cupped one breast, squeezing gently.

Beneath him, Morvoren gasped in pain, and he looked up to see the Anchor sparking in her hand. Immediately he let her go, and she cradled it against her, teeth clenched against the pain. When the spasm passed, she looked up at him and he could see tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. “Damn it, that hurts.”

“Morvoren, I—“ But he didn’t want to bring it up, not just yet. “Do you want me to keep going, make you forget the pain?”

She nodded, her eyes closing. One of the tears rolled down the side of her cheek. “Please.”

The Iron Bull traced one hand over her face, fingertips gently gliding along her skin, and then down her throat and across her chest and stomach. His lips followed the same path, small light kisses while his hands caressed her sides and her legs. Slowly he soothed and aroused, listening for each small change in her breathing that said she was relaxing into the heat he was kindling within her, until his fingers found the wetness at her core. Kneeling by the side of the bed, he drew her to the edge and put his mouth where his hands had been, licking and kissing and sucking in her most tender places, aiming for a slow and steady climb to fulfillment.

Her hips arched into his mouth, her hands reaching for his horns and gripping them tightly, and she called his name in the extremity of her pleasure.

He wiped his mouth and then climbed onto the bed, lying down next to her.

“Thank you,” she said softly, not opening her eyes.

“Oh, my pleasure. Trust me.” He grinned.

“And here I thought it was mine.” 

“Both.” He rested a hand on her abdomen, the skin so soft beneath his fingers. “ _Kadan_.”

Now her eyes opened, and she turned her head to look at him. “Out with it.”

“You could tell?”

She nodded, waiting for him to speak.

“I had a thought. I—I think I know how to fix the Anchor.”

“You do?” Morvoren’s eyebrows rose in surprise and she sat up. “How? Is it a spell? Where did you find it?”

“In the Deep Roads. I thought of it when …” He traced the line of healing pink skin where she had been injured.

Her eyes widened as she followed his thought processes. “You can’t be serious.”

“We can’t find that damned Solas, and this thing is going to kill you. Of course I’m serious.”

“You want to cut off my hand?”

“Can you think of any other way?”

She pursed her lips. The answer was no, but she didn’t want to admit it.

“I can’t let this thing kill you, _kadan_ , not if there’s a way to do anything about it.”

“And if it’s in my blood, and cutting off my hand won’t help?”

“I asked Dorian, he said he thought not.”

“But he doesn’t really know.”

“No.”

“So you want to cut my hand off as an experiment? If it doesn’t work, what are you going to cut off next?”

The Iron Bull sat up, too, now, using his most persuasive voice. He wasn’t ex-Ben-Hassrath for nothing. “It will work.”

“And then what will I do? Hard to hold a dagger in a hand that isn’t there.”

“You still have one more.”

“They come as a set, Bull!”

“So do eyes.”

It was his best card, and he played it well, holding her gaze with his single eye until she reddened and looked away. “I can’t. My hand, Ashkaari. I … I can’t.”

“You can’t marry me, because that’s too constricting, and you can’t cut off your hand to save your own life because you’re afraid to learn how to fight with one hand—what are you doing, Morvoren, just waiting until something comes along to magically solve all your problems? Because he’s gone, and he’s not coming back, and no one else has that answer.”

“I—“

“It seems like I care about your life more than you do.”

“It’s not that! It’s just … there’s so much to do, and I keep doing it, and I figure I’ll think about it later when there’s time, but there isn’t time, and I … I don’t want to think about it. I’m—“ She looked away. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”

“Not nothing. Tell me.” The Iron Bull gently turned her face back toward him.

“You’ll be ashamed of me.”

“Never.”

“I’m—I’m scared. I don’t want to die, and I don’t want to lose my hand, and I just—I just want to go home. Please, take me home, Ashkaari. Please.” Her face crumpled before he could respond, tears welling up in her eyes and rolling down her face. He drew her against him, cradling her as she sobbed, his own eye stinging with tears he didn’t dare shed lest he lose control, the empty socket aching and dry.

“I love you,” he whispered in her hair. “We’ll—we’ll find a way. I promise.” But he still believed taking off her hand was the only way, and he dreaded the moment when he—or her ongoing pain, or both—had to make that clear to her.


	14. Growth

Ren got up the next morning early, before the dawn had begun to lighten the sky. In truth, she’d slept very little, lying there rigid and unhappy next to the Iron Bull long after he had begun to snore. The real kind, not the fake kind he used when he wanted her to think he was asleep but he really wasn’t.

She was ashamed of herself for breaking down the way she had; she hadn’t wanted him to see how deeply afraid she was of what was happening to her. Ashkaari’s offer to marry her was sweet, if unnecessary, and showed how deeply afraid he was, that he would clutch at useless straws to try to keep her close to him. His offer to cut off her hand … She clenched her fist and held it close to herself. No. Not that. She was going to keep her hand, and the Anchor, and once they had found the answer to this Qunari problem, then she would consider what to do.

It wasn’t the Anchor so much. She appreciated its power, and it had grown familiar there in her palm, something that was simply part of her and which she gave as little thought to as she did her middle toe. At least, until this happened. In the long run, losing the Anchor would probably bother her less than losing her middle toe, and she still had hope that some way would be found to do it … although she couldn’t forget that Corypheus himself hadn’t been able to remove it, and he had really, really wanted to.

This early, few people were about. Ren spotted some elven servants congregated together, partially screened by some bushes. When they saw her, they scattered like frightened rabbits. Idly, she wondered what that was about. Some sort of servants’ gossip, no doubt.

The Anchor sparked in her hand, and she turned her face away from the path, pretending to be interested in the flowers at her feet so that no one could see the pain in her face, the tears in her eyes, or the way she couldn’t stand against it. She kept hoping it would get easier, that the more frequent the pain the more she would get used to it, the easier it would be to bear. But so far, that hadn’t happened, and in fact, was getting worse, and it was harder and harder to grit her teeth and not cry out with the agony.

Maybe the Iron Bull was, once again, damnably right. Maybe she needed to take the hand off. But how could a person fight with only one hand? If she lost it, if she couldn’t fight, would she still be the woman he loved? How could she take down another dragon with him if she only had one hand? So there she’d be, pathetic and helpless and no longer the woman he had fallen in love with, and how long could they last together like that?

A tear fell on the white petals of the flowers she was pretending to look at, and then another and another.

A gentle hand pressed against her back, a voice saying her name, and she leaped up, catching her fist just before it connected with her brother’s jaw. 

“Oh, Cadoc, I’m sorry. I … didn’t hear you.”

“No, I see you didn’t.” He was looking at her with concern, and she realized there had been no chance to wipe away her tears or compose herself. He was seeing her vulnerable and in pain and miserable, and that was the last thing she ever wanted anyone to see.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, before he could speak.

“You’re allergic to the flowers?”

“Yes. Yes, I am. Terribly allergic.”

“So you were sticking your face in them?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Clearly, you’re not a very good liar, sister.”

Ren sighed. “No, I’m really not. Either that or living with an ex-spy, I’ve given up trying. He can always see right through me.”

“So where is he now?” Cadoc frowned, his face darkening. “Is he the reason you’re crying?”

“No! I mean, sort of. But … not really.”

“Which is it?”

She turned her hand over, opening it up. The Anchor had reached the first knuckle of her fingers, and was well past her wrist, her whole hand glowing with it. “It used to be this big.” She showed him the size in her palm. “It’s growing, and it hurts like you wouldn’t believe, and the pain is getting worse while the growth goes faster.”

Cadoc looked, fascinated, at her hand, lifting it gently with his own. Few people had ever had the chance to look at it up close, although many had asked. Ren rarely allowed anyone such a close look. At first that had been her own discomfort with it, and after that Josephine’s recommendation, to preserve the mystery of the mark as much as she could. According to the Ambassador, that had helped with the Inquisitor’s overall mystique.

“How did you get this?” Cadoc asked.

“I thought everyone knew this story. Don’t bards sing about it?”

He shrugged. “I haven’t spent a lot of time around bards … and Father refuses to have you spoken of in his presence.”

“He would.” Ren shook her head, and then explained to Cadoc about the ritual, and Corypheus, and the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

“Wow. I mean, of course, I knew you had done some big things, but I had no idea.” He closed his hands around hers, which he was still holding. “No surprise, though.”

“Really? Father thinks I’m a waste of good Trevelyan blood.”

“Father thinks we’re all a waste of good Trevelyan blood, except maybe Demelza. I think he’s actually considering getting married again to sire a new line of heirs.”

“You’re kidding.”

Cadoc shook his head. “I wish I were.”

Ren couldn’t help but laugh. “He really does only know one way of seeing the world.”

“That’s true. But you’ve never gone along with that—you’ve always insisted on finding out about the world, and refused to be what you were told to be.” He smiled. “Gawen and I used to envy you so much. There you were, out roaming the grounds, swimming and climbing and hunting and we didn’t even know what, and we were stuck in stuffy classrooms, memorizing languages and lineages and whatever other –ages Father thought necessary for his heirs.”

“It was a good life,” Ren agreed, “although at the time I would have given anything to be in the classroom with the two of you, to have Father pay me the slightest attention.”

“Is that why you acted the way you did, then, so that he would have to notice you?”

“For a long time, I think so. Eventually I stopped caring whether he noticed me or not, and I just wanted to … go somewhere. Be something other than someone’s bought and paid for wife. Something other than a bargaining chip.”

Cadoc sighed. “I was a bargaining chip, too, only I didn’t know it until it was too late. I thought … I really thought when I went to Father and told him I couldn’t—couldn’t … But he didn’t care. He talked about potions, and magics, and I realized that the bloodline, his precious heirs, were all that had ever really mattered to him.”

“Is that when you took matters into your own hands?”

“Yes. Finally.” He looked at her, his eyes sad. “Do you know I used to wish that I had snuck out with you and Gawen that day? I used to wish I had gone and I had been the one to get sick and die, so that I wouldn’t instead have been the one left alone with Father’s anger and his expectations and his demands.” Reaching out, he put a hand on her shoulder. “I used to blame you, Ren, just like he did, for what happened to Gawen, but … it wasn’t your fault. You know that, don’t you?”

She shook her head, tears starting again at the thought of her little brother, his pale, cold hand in hers. “If I hadn’t made him sneak out with me …”

“He wanted a life. For a brief moment, he had one. He had … fun, which was sorely lacking in our childhood.”

“But then he lost his life! He might still be alive!”

“Or he might have caught cold some other way. Gawen was always delicate. So was I. We were sick all the time. You can’t know what would have happened, and you can’t hold yourself responsible. Not any longer.”

“I …” Ren turned away, trying not to let him see her cry, but unable to stop the tears.

Her brother put both hands on her shoulders, saying softly, “I’ve seen how things are since I’ve been here. I’ve been asking around. The Inquisitor’s put everything on you again, hasn’t he? You ran from home, you ran from what you thought were your responsibilities to the family, and then you took on this massive weight of other people’s problems—and you saved the world. It’s all right to stop and take care of yourself for once, Ren.”

“I can’t.” She rubbed her arm over her face. “There’s—I can’t tell you everything, but there are things going on that … I can’t stop. Not now.”

“Then when? When this thing on your hand takes over your whole arm, your whole body?”

She shuddered, imagining it as she had so often. “Maybe there will be time …”

“Maybe there won’t.” He turned her around to face him. “I only just found you again, sister. I don’t want to lose you. And that Qunari of yours, he doesn’t want to lose you, either. Or all the friends you have. You’ve rebuilt your family—you have people who love you all around you. Don’t throw that away because you’re too stubborn to ask for help.”

“And if the world falls apart while I’m whining about my hand?”

“Then someone else will have to step up.”

“Who, Cadoc? You? Morris? The Divine? None of you are out there fighting the enemy, hand to hand, standing up against what’s coming against us all. Tell me how I’m supposed to do that with only one hand?” she said, keeping her voice low only with an effort.

Cadoc shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t have that answer. I only know that I don’t want you to die.”

“You think I do? Of course I don’t! But I also don’t want a lot of other people to die because I took my eye off what was going on to deal with my own issues. I was—I was really selfish for a long time, Cadoc. I only thought about myself and what I needed and wanted. And then I woke up in a jail cell with some weird green glowing thing on my hand, and I was thrust into a whole world of people who needed … everything! Food and shelter and someone to protect and defend them, and someone to stop the world from ending. And I became that person, because the other choice was to run, and hide, like a coward. Now they need me again, and I can’t run, or hide. Not and live with myself in the morning. You say Gawen deserved a chance to live, on his own terms. A lot of other people out there deserve a chance to live, too, and I’m going to give them that.”

He squeezed her hand. “Do you know how brave you are?”

“Not brave, just … unwilling to leave something undone because no one else has stepped up to take care of it.”

“If your mind is made up …” Cadoc gave her a small smile. “I’ve spent too much time with Father to bother arguing with a Trevelyan. But I want you to promise me that as soon as you have even a second to breathe, you will do something about this hand. If not for yourself, for me, and for your Iron Bull, and for all the people who love you.”

Ren swallowed against still more tears. “I promise.”

“Good. Now let’s get some breakfast, because I’m famished.”

“Lead on.” She walked with him down the paths of Halamshiral, feeling the ghost of Gawen that had haunted her for so long dissipating. She would always miss her little brother, but maybe she didn’t have to feel responsible for his death any longer.


	15. Shattered Library

After breakfasting with Cadoc, enjoying her brother’s company now that they understood each other, Ren met the others by the eluvian. Ashkaari was watching her with worried eyes, and she nodded at him to let him know she was ready for work, if not for resuming their conversations from the previous two nights. For the moment, she had to catch the Viddasala; there was no time to consider her hand, despite the stinging ache of the growing Anchor, or whether there was any actual reason for them to get married other than Ashkaari’s fears for her.

He seemed to accept that, squaring his shoulders and readying himself for another trip through the eluvian. She knew he didn’t like the magic, the strangeness of the Crossroads, the elven ruins of the lands they kept emerging in from the Crossroads, or, despite his protests, having the enemy they were facing be the people he had grown up amongst. 

Ren laid her hand across the small of his back, letting it slide off as she passed him in a reassuring caress, and he looked down at her with a smile. “Shall we, boss?”

“No time like the present.” And she stepped through the mirror. 

In the Crossroads, they spied a group of running Qunari and followed them, only to see them vanish through an eluvian stranded on a pillar of stone. A strange egg-shaped dome allowed Ren to raise a set of rocks as a walkway, but there were two more gaps that needed to be filled, and the dome apparently only worked once.

Another eluvian was near them, and Dorian suggested that perhaps another of those dome-like things lay on the other side of it. Ren figured it was worth a try, so they went through, and found themselves this time in a shattered library. Some books still remained on the shelves, but the vast majority of them were scattered across the floor. “What did the Viddasala want with this place?” she asked the Iron Bull.

He shrugged. “No fucking clue. I just hope we can track her down in all this."

Ren led the way through the library, and through yet one more eluvian. The Fade here was filled with floating half-ruined buildings, rubble everywhere. It was hard to keep their footing.

Sera had come with them today, and was clearly regretting it, her breathing fast and erratic and her skin pale and clammy.

The Iron Bull caught her by the shoulders. “Sera!”

“The Fade … not good. I would … rather be … anywhere … else!”

“Yeah, but you’re not. And this isn’t the Fade. I don’t know what the fuck it is, but it’s not the Fade. So snap out of it!” He shook her, just enough to rattle her cage a bit, and she shuddered.

“We’re out of here soon, right?”

“Right.” Ren didn’t believe it, but if it would calm Sera and keep her from having a meltdown, it was worth going along.

“I mean … please yourself, Inquizzy Heraldy, but really—let’s kill everything and be anywhere else!”

“As quickly as we can,” Ren promised. That, at least, she meant.

Dorian picked his way over a pile of half-burnt books. “This is all the library,” he said in surprise. “Something blasted it into pieces, and scattered it all across this—wherever this is.”

“Yes,” a voice said sadly behind them, and Ren turned, daggers out, wincing as the Anchor began to sizzle in her hand. A spirit stood there, shadowy and vague. 

“Who are you?”

“I?” It paused, as if the question startled it. “I am Study. Come, know what has not been lost.”

“I’m game.” Intrigued, the Iron Bull moved closer to it.

“The Qunari would not approach us, but we learned from them nonetheless. If you wish to exchange knowledge, they congregate at the lower gate.”

Ren filed that information away, although an exchange of knowledge wasn’t exactly what she had in mind. “Was this an elven library once?”

“This is the Vir Dirthara—the living knowledge of the empire.”

“No!” Dorian looked around them with a bright glitter in his eyes. “The secrets this library must hold …”

“We can leave you here if you want,” the Iron Bull snapped.

Dorian didn’t protest at that idea, his eyes on the piles of books and papers that surrounded them. 

The spirit sighed. “Alas, the paths are in disarray.”

“Why?”

“The Vir Dirthara was made with world and Fade. When they sundered, so did we. Paths broke; knowledge fragmented.”

“When they sundered?” Dorian asked. “The world and the Fade were once one and the same?”

Ren waved at him impatiently. The Viddasala was the problem here, not ancient mythology. “I’m looking for a Qunari called Viddasala,” she said to the spirit. “Do you know what she wants here?”

“Viddasala. Yes. She uses scholars and mages for study. They fear this place, but they seek to know the Veil.”

The Iron Bull frowned. “What does she want to know about the Veil?”

Shaking its head, the spirit answered, “I regret that I do not have that information. I am sundered from myself. If you discover another of me nearer the Qunari, I may know more.”

“So you are just a piece of the spirit of the library?” Dorian asked.

“That is correct. I was torn into pieces when the library broke. If you see another, give it my greetings, will you, please? I have not thought with myself for some time,” it added sadly.

“There must be thousands of years of history here,” Dorian said eagerly. “There must be so much you can teach us.”

“Honored patron, alas, there are gaps … breaks. Much was lost, the connecting threads ripped apart. I knew all once, but only fragments or knowledge new, since the fall.” It sighed, and Dorian echoed the sound with his own, filled with disappointed hopes.

“Maybe another version will be able to tell you more,” Ren said. She turned back to the spirit. “Thank you. We’ll need to be going now.”

“May the paths remain solid under your feet.”

Ren hoped so, too.

“Know this,” the spirit added suddenly, before they could take their leave. “An unknown person, not of the Qunari, recently woke the Librarians.”

“Librarians?”

“Guardians. Before the fracture they facilitated learning; now, beware them. They are … unwell.”

“Well, won’t that be fun,” the Iron Bull growled.

“Maybe they’ll get in the way of the Qunari,” Ren suggested. She frowned at the spirit. “An unknown person?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe that’s the agent of Fen’Harel the Qunari are so concerned about,” Dorian offered. 

"Yep." The Iron Bull's tone indicated he was keeping back his speculations. He shook his head when Ren looked at him questioningly, and she let it drop. The Viddasala was the important thing at the moment.

In the center of the library, once they reached it, stood a metal statue of a tree, green magic crackling visibly around it. Ren cried out as the magic seemed to awaken the Anchor, nearly going to her knees with the pain. Immediately, Dorian and the Iron Bull were on either side of her, the Iron Bull’s arms around her and Dorian cradling her hand in his. She could feel the tickle of his soothing healing at the edges of the pain, but only barely.

When the spasm had passed, Dorian frowned at her hand and at the tree. “Have you noticed that your Anchor is flaring up near elven magic?”

“I’ve been a little busy being in excruciating pain,” she said with a breathless attempt at a laugh that called a wince from the Iron Bull. His arms tightened around her. “So what does it mean?”

Dorian shook his head, looking distressed. “I’m not sure.”

“You’re no help,” the Iron Bull snapped.

“I’m doing my best!”

“Both of you, enough. We have work to do.” Ren shrugged off her lover’s arms. “Let’s go after those Qunari.” They had raised another bridge; one more left to go. In a corner there was another eluvian they hadn’t tried yet, so she led them that way.

On the other side, they found a few Qunari scattered on the ground, mouths open and eyes bugged out, very dead. The Iron Bull knelt and looked them over. “Not a mark on them. Backs hunched, eyes wide open … they were scared shitless when they died.”

“What do you think killed them?”

He got to his feet, brushing dust off the knees of his pants. “This Fen’Harel agent guy, I imagine. Must be a mage.” He frowned.

“What is it?” Ren asked.

“Nothing.” The finality in his tone said he meant it, so she let it go. He would tell her later, when he was sure of whatever idea he’d had.

Another spirit wandered here, back and forth across a ruined piece of library. “Welcome. Welcome,” it said as they approached. “Listen to to the last words of those who lived past the fall.” 

“I’m sorry, I don’t think we have time,” Ren began, but Dorian hushed her.

“Please, tell us.”

In a different voice, a voice echoed from memory, the spirit said, “How could the Dread Wolf cast a Veil between the world that wakes and the world that dreams? The Evanuris will send people. They will save us!” And then a second voice, deeper. “When have you last heard from the gods? When the Veil came down, they went silent.” The first voice came again, more distressed than before. “What is this Veil? What has Fen’Harel done?”

“Wait,” Dorian said, “wait. Are these memories saying that Fen’Harel _created_ the Veil? That … hardly seems possible.”

“That … can’t be true,” Sera said, shaking her head violently and stepping backward, as if getting away from the spirit would make it all go away. “Veil’s always been there. No one made it!”

“If it is true, that means the Fade and the waking world were once one and the same.” Dorian frowned thoughtfully. “Fascinating.”

“It’s not helping us find the Viddasala,” Ren reminded him. Her hand ached, the Anchor spitting and sparking again, and she wanted to get this over with. She nodded a thanks at the spirit and dragged Dorian along behind her toward the last of the egg-shaped things, raising the last walkway.

“You know,” he said, “now that we have so many samples, it’s conceivable we could build eluvians of our own.”

As one, Sera and the Iron Bull shuddered and said, “No, thank you.”

Dorian shook his head at them sorrowfully. “You have no vision.”

“How about you not be so Tevinter about all this ancient bullshit?” Sera snapped.

“It’s just … after these past few years, it would be nice to create something magical that is also helpful for a change. That’s all.”

Ren patted him on the shoulder. “You hold on to that thought. Later, there will be time for it.” She froze, her eyes filling with tears as the Anchor flared, and Dorian held on to her until the spasm passed.

“You’re right. Let’s finish this.”

“Thank you.”

They headed back toward the eluvian that would take them through the main library. 

The Iron Bull spoke up suddenly. “What I don’t get is that the Viddasala’s people focus on studying magic—and then neutralizing it. But here they are using eluvians, when I’d have expected them to shatter any mirror they found.” He shook his head, growling. “I fucking hate not knowing what’s going on. And on top of it all …” He growled again, deeper. “Floating crap, magic mirror crap, evil demon crap … When this is over, I’m gonna need somebody to hit me with a stick again.”

Sera looked around uneasily. “Works for me. It isn’t over, and I already need to hit things with sticks.”

“Can you do it more quietly?” Ren asked. “We haven’t seen these Librarians the spirit warned us about yet, and I’d rather not wake them if I can avoid it.” 

They both nodded, and she stepped through the eluvian into the main library and ran straight into a Librarian. It was a big, screaming, angry spirit that floated and attacked with some kind of lightning, and it had friends. Several friends.

Ren was glad for the presence of the others coming through the eluvian behind her, but even with the four of them, and the addition of her Anchor sparking fire at the Librarians at intervals, it was a hard fought battle, and she thought once or twice they weren’t going to make it. The world would end, the Qunari would take over, and all because she couldn’t defeat a shadowy wisp of nothingness here in some place that didn’t exist. Well, that was not going to happen, she said to herself, raising her arm and letting the Anchor loose on the remaining Librarians.

They screamed as the magic struck them, held in a stasis that gave the Iron Bull and Sera and Dorian a chance to finish them off.

When it was over, the Anchor a searing agony from her fingertips up into her shoulder, Ren fell to her knees and vomited across the floor with the force of the pain. At last it was over, the steady ache a blissful relief after the sharp torture. She took the handkerchief Dorian gave her to wipe her mouth with a weak thank you, closing her eyes for a moment to regroup.

Next to her, the Iron Bull said, very quietly, “That’s really not getting any better, boss.” 

She looked up at him, refusing to be drawn into the argument again. “The pain’s stopped.”

“This time.”

“It’s worse,” Sera said in an obvious distress that rather surprised Ren. She knew Sera liked her, but she hadn’t known her well-being was quite that important to the elf. “You need to … not get worse. Please?”

She smiled. “I’ll get right on that.”

Dorian took her other hand and led her toward the last eluvian, down a little hallway. Another spirit met them there. “Welcome. Listen to the last words of those who walked this place.”

Ren didn’t want to listen. She wanted to keep going and kill the Viddasala and go home. But Dorian’s hand had tightened on her arm, and he was listening intently, so she waited.

“After he held back the sky to imprison the gods, the Dread Wolf disappeared. We must tear down the Veil! The cities, the pathways … without magic, they’re crumbling!” And another voice, sad and resigned. “You’re wasting your time. Fen’Harel’s Veil has turned our empire to ruins.”

“Are you saying that the ancient elven empire collapsed because the Veil weakened magic?” Dorian asked.

“If they relied on magic even more than you Vints, no wonder things went to crap when it dried up,” the Iron Bull said.

Dorian turned to him eagerly. “Do you realize what this means? What this place is? The actual history of the elves could change everything!”

“No one wants it changed,” Sera said flatly. “Keep it to yourself.”

She had a point, Ren thought. People got comfortable with the history they thought they knew; they didn’t want someone coming along and telling them differently. “Come on,” she said to Dorian, with a quick nod for the spirit. “Let’s go after the Viddasala.”

He allowed himself to be dragged along, but not without a wistful backward look at the library and all its treasures.


	16. Inquisitor

On the other side of the eluvian, the Viddasala waited, along with a number of her supporters. She stood poised, ready to go through yet another mirror, but she had her arms folded as though she had expected Ren and the others all along.

Sera looked up at the giant woman, horns branching and twisting elegantly above her head, and giggled. “Wow.”

“She could kill you with a twist of her pinkie,” the Iron Bull said.

“Yeah, but you’d die happy.”

Ren rolled her eyes.

On the landing above them, the Viddasala spoke. She was aware that she had the upper hand, that all four of them were calculating how they would handle the sheer number of Qunari who opposed them. “So,” she said at last, “here you are. Survivor of the Breach. Herald of Change. Hero of the South.”

Ren shook her head. “I survived the Breach, but none of the rest is true.”

“Come now, Inquisitor, even you cannot be that naïve.”

“I’m not the Inquisitor any longer, either.”

“Don’t waste my time!” snapped the Viddasala. “You remain the symbol of the Inquisition, you and your marked hand. The truly astonishing thing is that you were allowed to walk free among your people, even after you had fulfilled your purpose and demonstrated your power.” She shook her head. “Your duty is done, Inquisitor. It is time to end your magic.”

Ren lifted her hand, the Anchor sparkling in it. Or, by this point, it was more as though the Anchor’s sparkle _was_ her hand. It had reached the tips of her pinkie and her thumb, and a good three inches above her wrist. “All it does is repair tears in the Veil. I would think you’d approve of that.”

The Viddasala stared at it pointedly, and Ren had the unpleasant feeling the Qunari knew all about its growth, and the pain. “Is that truly all it does? Tell me, why do you hold it as though it’s begun to pain you?”

“It’s fine.”

The Viddasala smiled. “Tell yourself that if you will. Your lies are of no interest to me.” The smile broadened unpleasantly. “If it helps, I can tell you that you won’t need to endure the pain much longer.” She gestured to the assembled Qunari in the room.

“I’ve defeated all your Ben-Hassrath so far,” Ren said, desperately trying to sound confident.

“So you have.” The Viddasala’s eyes flicked to the Iron Bull. “By one means or another. The repercussions have already begun.”

“It’s hard to punish a dead man,” the Iron Bull growled.

“Yes. Isn’t it. Hissrad.”

He winced at the name.

The Viddasala looked pleased by the reaction. Moving her gaze back to Ren, she said, “I am no stranger to catastrophe, but this chaos in the south defies comprehension. The Qun has left your people to curb your own magic—and you have failed utterly. You’ve amply proven that we should have stepped in long ago.”

“Is that all Dragon’s Breath is about, murdering our heads of state just to control our magic? You’ve fought Tevinter how long, and you still think it’s that easy?” Ren asked.

“And yet you seem to believe that closing the Breach solved everything, that its consequences stopped there.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t believe the Breach began the problems in the south, any more than I believe closing it ended them. People are … people.” Ren shrugged. “You can’t put them in a box and call them fixed.”

“You can. We have.”

“You think you have.” It was on the tip of Ren’s tongue to use the Iron Bull as an example, but he wouldn’t thank her for that, and in some way she felt it would make him vulnerable here in front of this woman whom he very much wanted to look strong in the face of.

The Viddasala was thinking of something else, anyway. Looking out across her assembled people, she raised her arms, and her voice. “The day we saw the Breach, the Qun decided its action. We would remove your leaders and spare those who toil.”

“Shit,” the Iron Bull spat. “They played me. I’m sorry, boss.”

“We used you as the tool that you are,” the Viddasala corrected him. “Until you lost your edge.”

While the two Qunari attempted to stare one another down, Dorian spoke up for the first time. “If you had this grand master plan, what happened? Nothing seems to have gone quite right, has it?”

The Viddasala tore her gaze away from the Iron Bull’s and looked at Dorian as she might have at a bug. But his question had gotten under her skin, much as an insect’s venom might, and she spoke angrily. “This agent of Fen’Harel! He has disrupted everything. Lives that were to be spared, lost to him!”

“But who is he? He’s not working with us—why would you think he would be?”

The Viddasala gave a pitying laugh, then turned to her lieutenant, standing next to the mirror with her. “Kill the Inquisitor, then follow me to the Darvaarad.” She stepped through the eluvian, leaving Ren’s frustrated cry of “I’m not the Inquisitor!” ringing behind her.

And the Qunari attacked. Ren couldn’t even count how many. She leaped and spun, her daggers flashing, avoiding slashing blades and downward strikes and thrown spears. The hardest was the saarebas, whose magic was powerful and whose defenses were remarkably strong. Making it all even harder still was the fact that Ren could barely hold her left-hand dagger, much less use it in its usual smooth concert along with its fellow in her right.

Just as it appeared that the tide was turning, that they were whittling away at the numbers of Qunari, her hand began to spark and sizzle, the pain feeling as though it was burning through her flesh and up her arm and through her body, her muscles seizing up with it. She tried to move, but she couldn’t; couldn’t remember why she needed to. All that existed was pain, and the need to stand and bear it because there was nothing else she could do.

She was only vaguely aware of a massive hand shoving her backward, out of range of the saarebas, and then she lost the thread of the battle entirely, the haze of pain surrounding her, filling her.

When it subsided, she got shakily to her feet. She still held the right-hand dagger; the left-hand one had gone missing somewhere in the throes of her agony. Her body was weak and uncoordinated, her stomach churning. She was afraid she was going to be sick, and that would be no help to anyone. Trying to clear her head, she took stock of the field. The Iron Bull had another Qunari of similar size to himself backed up into a corner, and the two of them were going at it, massive blade against massive blade. They appeared evenly matched.

The saarebas was injured, four of Sera’s arrows sticking out of his back and shoulder, his casting weaker. Dorian was battering him with lightning and whatever dark Tevinter magic Dorian specialized in. Ren had never wanted to ask; not being a mage, she had always thought she probably didn’t need to know.

Sera was down, huddled in a little heap. She was so thin and frail she looked like old clothes lying there. Ren hurried to her side, taking a potion from the case she carried. Awkwardly, because her left hand was still not responding properly, she pried out the cork and opened Sera’s mouth and poured the potion into it.

Coughing and spluttering, the elf sat up. “Hey. You’re still here. I’m still here.”

“Looks like it.”

“Or is this the Fade and is that Viddawhozie the Maker?” She chuckled weakly. “I wouldn’t mind that. Woof.”

“She’s a bit of a darker Maker than most people like to think of,” Ren said.

“Probably closer to true, though,” Sera said. She was digging out some mashed elfroot, smearing it on the wound in her side.

Dorian collapsed next to them. “Damn saarebas. Don’t help, though, I got him.”

“I knew you would.” Ren looked at her hand, feeling inadequate. She couldn’t have helped anyway. She was a danger to her people.

“Let me look at that.”

She snatched her hand back. “It’s no different. Just … worse.”

He looked at her with concern, but didn’t argue.

The Iron Bull came over, blade over his shoulder, grinning. “Well, I feel better. Everyone else feel better?” His eye sought Ren’s face, and she could see him cataloging the dark circles under her eyes and the paleness of her skin. 

She shrugged at the implied question on his face. “It’s been better.”

“We have to get you back to the Winter Palace.”

“We have to go after the Viddasala.” But he was right; she couldn’t fight this way. She might never be able to fight again.

“Let’s at least look around while we’re here,” Dorian said, getting up, “see if we can find any clues to what the Darvaarad is.” He looked at the Iron Bull, and at Ren. “I’ll look.”

“Thanks,” the Iron Bull said. He sank down on the floor next to Ren, putting his arm around her.

The familiar smell of his after-battle sweat was comforting, as was the heat from his massive body. Ren closed her eyes wearily. When had she last had a good night’s sleep? Even when the hand didn’t flare, she worried that it would, lying awake waiting for the tingling and burning of it.

“ _Kadan_.” There was unmistakable meaning in his voice.

“Not now, all right? Not here. We’ll talk about it when we go back.”

“Damn right we will.”

She turned to look at him. “What if it doesn’t help? What if it’s in my blood, not just my arm? What if … what if we take your drastic step and it doesn’t stop?”

“It will. It has to.” He pulled her even closer, burying his face in her hair. “It has to.”

When they looked up, Dorian was there, with a sheaf of papers in his hand. “I hate to interrupt, but I found something. Bull, what does it say?”

Bull took them, flipping through, frowning in concentration and growling in annoyance, alternately. “She brought mages here to research strengthening the Veil.”

“A way to clamp down on magic? That would be worth going through an eluvian.” Dorian caught them all looking at him and shrugged. “What? Not for me, naturally, but for a Viddasala.”

The Iron Bull stopped at a paper from the middle of the pile. “This tells us how to use a keystone. Anyone find a keystone?”

Sera pulled a dull carved rock out of a hidden pocket in her tunic. “Picked this up off one of your Qunari people. Stone, anyway.”

Dorian took it from her. “It could be. These are elvhen runes.”

Brandishing the paper, the Iron Bull said, “And I know the password to use.”

“Good.” Ren got to her feet, pretending she was ready. “Let’s go, then.”

All three of them turned to look at her, with similarly pitying looks.

Unable to fight the inevitable any longer, she nodded. “I know. I’d only get us all killed. I have to go back. But you could go on, get to the Viddasala before it’s too late.”

“Not a chance, _kadan_. Where you go, I go. That’s the way it’s always been, and that’s the way it’s always going to be.”

Dorian added hastily, “Don’t look at me. Going against a Viddasala without you? Tricky. Without him? Suicide.”

Sera nodded. “What he said. No, thanks. Back to the Winter Palace for me.”

Ren couldn’t argue with them … but she had a sinking feeling as she cradled her hand against her chest and hurried back along the paths that they had just let the situation get a whole lot worse, and all because she couldn’t fight back against her own hand.


	17. Caught in a Nightmare

When they came through the eluvian, one of Cullen’s men immediately approached them, relief written bright on his face. “Inquisitor!”

“Former Inquisitor,” Ren snapped. Her hand was aching, and she wasn’t looking forward to this argument with the Iron Bull she was about to have.

“Yes, of course. They—the Commander said as soon as you came through they needed to see you in the War Room.”

“ _Kadan_ ,” the Iron Bull said warningly.

“Bull, I’m going.”

“Whatever you say, boss.” But he wasn’t happy about it, that much was clear in his tone.

Ren hurried with the soldier to the makeshift War Room. Her temper flashed and nearly boiled over when she saw that they were all just standing there—Cullen and Josephine and Leliana, Morris and Fairbanks—all clean and uninjured. How had they gotten to this point again, where she did all the work while they sat around and told her what to do? She scowled blackly down the length of the table.

“The Viddasala?” Cullen asked anxiously.

“Got away.” She glared at them even harder, daring them to complain. “Anyone else want to go after her?”

“I’m certain you did everything you could,” Leliana said soothingly, which only irritated Ren further.

“What do you need?” she asked, trying not to snap at them again.

“My agents have confirmed that gaatlok barrels have been found in the palace in Denerim, and in Val Royeaux, and across the Free Marches. As we suspected, the Winter Palace is not the only target.”

“Son-of-a-bitch.”

Cullen looked at her sympathetically, as though he would have been happy to swear, too. “It appears that if it were not for you, the Qunari would be one order from destroying every noble house in the known world.”

“It was really that elf, what was her name?” Ren looked at Fairbanks.

He looked distinctly unhappy. “Joy.”

“What’s the problem?” 

“I can’t find her.”

Ren shrugged, unconcerned. She’d never liked that elf anyway. She turned to Josephine. “Does this discovery put us in a better light with the ambassadors, reminding them that we still have uses, fighting battles they’d rather not get in the middle of?”

Josephine nodded, her mouth opened to respond, but Morris spoke before she could. “Not as much as we’d like, considering that we appear to be responsible for the threat.”

“What?” Ren and Josephine both looked at the Inquisitor, shocked.

He nodded, sighing heavily. 

“How, damn it?” Ren demanded.

Leliana clasped her hands behind her back, looking more weary than Ren had ever seen her. “The elven servant who was caught with the barrels has disappeared. Notes in his quarters suggest that he was a Qunari spy.”

“But he was Orlesian!” Fairbanks said. “Surely that implicates Orlais, not us.”

Very quietly, as if he didn’t want them to hear him, or more likely as if he wished he didn’t have to say it, Morris admitted, “The barrels arrived at the Winter Palace on the Inquisition’s supply manifest.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “If I had been doing my old job, this never would have happened, you have to believe me, but I—“ He looked at Ren, stricken. “I just can’t quite get the hang of being Inquisitor.”

“No one’s blaming you,” she assured him. In truth, she kind of did … but she also knew he had been chosen because he had an entirely different skill set from hers, and she was very far from being sure she could have done any better in this current situation.

“Damn it,” Cullen said, and he did indeed look relieved by the profanity, “here we are fighting a war on three fronts now, and we can’t even trust our own people?”

Josephine reached out and patted his arm. “We’ll find them,” she said. “Do we know who put the barrels on the Inquisition’s manifest?”

Sullenly, Fairbanks admitted, “An elf, one of several who have gone missing.” 

“I had their backgrounds checked,” Leliana added, ignoring the dark look Fairbanks shot her. “Each of them had joined the Inquisition after fleeing the chaos in Kirkwall.”

“I remember Kirkwall at its worst,” Cullen said. “Many of the city’s elves converted to the Qun, trying to find a better life, to make sense out of what was occurring there.”

“And the Qunari turned them into spies.” Josephine shook her head.

“We can’t change that now,” Ren said, her eyes on Leliana, who quite clearly blamed herself. “All we can do is decide how best to react now.”

But Josephine was past comfort. There were tears in her eyes. She braced her hands on the War Table, taking a deep breath to try to steady herself. “I’ve sat in those meetings for days now, fighting to protect the Inquisition. And for what? So that we could cover up our own complicity, deceive and threaten Orlais and Ferelden so that they will recognize our value? That is not the Inquisition I signed on for.”

Fairbanks looked uncomfortable, but didn’t say anything. Cullen said, helplessly, “We’ll search for the spies, Josephine.”

She looked up at him, as angry as Ren had ever seen her. “This isn’t about the spies! You—all of you—hid the Qunari body. You have guards stationed everywhere! You have all but seized control of the Winter Palace!”

Cullen frowned at her. “I recognize that it may not be politically convenient to protect ourselves, not to mention Ferelden and Orlais with us, but we’ve done only what was right!”

“What was right? Do you know what this has cost us diplomatically? The two powerful countries on whose borders we crouch, whose good will we depend on for our supply lines, are preparing to dismantle us as we speak!” Josephine turned away, swiping at the tears on her face with a gloved hand.

And Ren’s hand took that opportunity to flare up, the green light flashing on the faces of the Inquisition, making them each look sickly and demonic. Ren felt caught in a nightmare, as though somehow she had never awakened after the Conclave and all there was in the world was pain and the Fade and the sickening inability to grasp onto anything that was real. In her ears was a wail of pain, deafening her, and she wished whoever it was would stop.

Eventually she came back to herself, gasping for breath on her knees, cradling her hand against her chest. Her cheeks were wet with her own tears, her throat sore from screaming. That had been herself, that cry. 

Even as she realized it, the door came crashing open and her Ashkaari was there, bending over her, his arms around her. “ _Kadan_. It has to be now. You—we can’t wait any longer.”

“Damn it,” Ren said, her voice weak and raspy in her own ears. “I saved Ferelden, and now they’re angry because that means they don’t have to feel grateful. I saved Orlais, and now they’re greedy for the power they think I have. I’ve closed the Breach—twice—and all I wanted was to go away in peace … but no, I can’t because my own damn hand wants to kill me.” The Iron Bull had helped her to her feet, and she glared at each of the others in turn. “Can’t one thing in this fucking world just stay fixed?”

They were all silent, and she was so angry she could barely see straight. Or possibly that was the pain, that still hadn’t entirely gone away.

“Now I have to go into the Darvaarad after the Viddasala, because Maker forbid you do it, Morris, or you, Fairbanks, or you, Cullen, or Your Perfection.” She left Josephine out. To be fair, she should have left Morris out, too, but he was the Inquisitor, damn it, this should have been his job. He should have been in charge. He should have taken charge.

“I … failed you. I’m sorry,” he said now, hanging his head.

She wanted to comfort him, tell him it wasn’t really his fault, but he had taken the job, he had to be able to stand up under the pressures.

“What are you going to do?” Cullen asked, his eyes meaningfully on her hand.

“Only one thing to do,” the Iron Bull said. His arms were still around her, and she was grateful, because she wasn’t sure she could stand without his support.

“There you go,” Ren said, fighting back tears, holding her hand protectively against her chest. She didn’t want to lose it, but there was no other choice, not any longer. “You can all fight amongst yourselves once I’m … once I’ve recovered.”

There were glances exchanged amongst the others, and she could see that they doubted the eventuality of her recovery.

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” Leliana said gravely, and for once Ren couldn’t argue against the title. She had really never been able to let go, not the way she had hoped to. And now it was too late. 

“Would you … Shall we inform the Exalted Council of the danger?” Josephine asked.

Ren tried to think clearly. Yes, they should probably know. She nodded. “Since I don’t know when I can go after the Viddasala, they need to know so they can be prepared.”

“When you are ready, you have my blade,” Cullen told her. “I will not stand by any longer.”

“Thank you.”

“And I will inform the Exalted Council personally,” Leliana added. 

Josephine began, “Leliana, I can—“

“No, Josie. Your job is hard enough already. This is my responsibility.”

“I’ll have guards ready at the eluvian, in case the Qunari attack the palace,” Cullen said.

“I’ll … be wherever I am most needed,” Morris said humbly.

His voice wavered in Ren's ears, and the world went black around her.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Morvoren sagged, suddenly, limp in the Iron Bull's arms, and he lifted her. He could see the Anchor sizzling—it had engulfed her hand now, and her arm halfway to the elbow. He felt the chill of panic in his heart, and only his certainty that there were steadier hands than his for this kept him from laying her out on the War Table and chopping that fucking Anchor off with his own blade, just to keep it from spreading further.

“I have to take her,” he said. If this damn meeting killed her, he would take great pleasure in personally killing everyone else in this room in retaliation.

Cullen crossed his arm over his chest, bowing to her. “Maker watch over her.”

Morvoren wouldn’t appreciate the prayer, but the Iron Bull did. This Anchor thing was magic; maybe there was a Maker out there, somewhere, too. It couldn’t hurt.

He turned from the room, moving swiftly, holding her against him and trying not to think about what he would do if she died.


	18. Consuming

The Iron Bull deposited his _kadan_ on the bed in their room, earning barely a murmur from her. In one sense, he was glad she had lost consciousness, because at least she wasn’t in pain, but seeing her so listless and pale was tearing his heart to pieces. If he had ever doubted the depth of his love for her, this test was proving it more thoroughly than he had ever wanted it to be. The idea of losing her to some fucking magic green thing in her hand was more than he could consider; what he would do if she died was so far beyond what he could imagine that he had tried his best to put it entirely out of his head. She wasn’t going to die, not as long as there was anything he could do about it.

Unfortunately, he was no healer, and Dorian wasn’t much better. The mage was holding her hand, looking at it clinically, and shaking his head. When he looked up at the Iron Bull, the stark fear in his eyes was more than a match for what lay in the Iron Bull’s heart.

“What if I try to take it off and I bungle it?” Dorian asked. “Or …”

“That one was enough. No bungling. I’ll get Stitches.” Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Stitches was the best. Or was he? Was he good enough? Was anyone good enough?

“Good idea.” On the bed, Morvoren moaned, her fist clenching, and Dorian said, “Bull? Hurry.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He had always moved pretty fast for a guy his size, but now he thought he might have set some records.

The Chargers were still here, thankfully. He’d given some thought to sending them home, since there wasn’t much for them to do here at the Winter Palace, but had never gotten around to actually doing it. He found them together in the tavern, his practiced ear telling him that they weren’t through their first cask yet. Stitches should be in decent shape.

Krem got to his feet as soon as the Iron Bull came in through the door. “Chief, what’s the matter?”

“I need Stitches. Now.”

There was no hesitation. The healer was out of his seat in a moment, snatching up the bag of supplies he carried everywhere. The Iron Bull saw Flissa next to Krem—besides being a good friend to his _kadan_ , Krem’s wife had done a little bit of everything in her checkered path. She could be useful.

“You come, too,” he said to her.

She glanced apprehensively at Krem, and got to her feet.

“You need anything else from us, Chief?” Krem asked.

“If …” He had never asked any of his people about their religious beliefs before. He wasn’t sure he had cared, and he still didn’t know if there was anything in it, but he was damned sure he wasn’t leaving a single stone unturned. “If you do … then pray.”

He didn’t stop to see what reaction that request got, too busy making his long strides count in taking him back to her as quickly as he could go. If he was too late … He couldn’t be too late. Not this time.

Dorian was still holding Morvoren when he got back to the room, and the mage’s face was drawn with worry and sorrow. “I think … I don’t know how much time there is left. It’s as though it’s consuming her from the inside.”

“How high do we have to take it?”

The mage had already taken her shirt off, and now he held out the arm, glowing that poisonous green more than halfway to the elbow. “I think we have to take the elbow and everything below. And that assumes whatever this is isn’t already in her bloodstream.”

“Oh, my dear!” Flissa rushed to the side of the bed, sinking down and putting her arms around Morvoren. “I knew this wasn’t going away, much as she tried to tell me it was nothing.”

“She told me that, too. And other things.” The Iron Bull felt that this was all his fault. He should have forced her to make this decision before things got this far.

“You couldn’t have,” Flissa said, reading his mind. “She would never have forgiven you for forcing this decision in anything less than an extremity.”

“She agreed, this time. Because there was no other choice.”

Stitches, understanding the situation, was kneeling by the bed. “Tricky. But …” His sensitive fingers explored her upper arm. “I think we can do it.”

“What do you need?” Dorian asked him.

“Can you keep her unconscious?”

“The pain has done all the work so far.”

“This will be a different kind of pain. We can’t have it rousing her from this … stupor and her move at the wrong time.”

Dorian nodded. “I understand. I can keep her under.”

“I’ll hold her,” the Iron Bull said.

Stitches didn’t even look up at him. “No, Chief. You’re too close. Besides, magic’s better for this.” He glanced at Flissa. “You ever help with surgery?”

“Once or twice.”

“Good. You’ll hand me equipment. We doing this here?” He looked around the fancy room.

“Can’t think of anyplace better,” the Iron Bull said. He felt fidgety. Why weren’t they just doing it already?

“Carrying her through the halls to somewhere more suitable would only let her enemies know she’s vulnerable,” Dorian pointed out, and the Iron Bull stared at him in shock. He should have thought of that, but it hadn’t even occurred to him. His worry for her was consuming him just as the Anchor on her hand was consuming her.

“All right.” Stitches didn’t look happy, but he accepted the situation as it was. “In that case, let’s strip this bed, get the bedding over there on top of the dresser. I’ll need a harder surface to work on.”

“Come on, Stitches! There's no time for all this crap!” 

“Chief.” Stitches got to his feet and fixed him with a firm look. “I know how you feel. But you have to trust me. If we move too fast, this could go really badly. Really badly,” he repeated. “We have to take our time and make sure everything’s ready. Now, if it were up to me, you’d be waiting in the hallway, but I’m not going to order you out. Unless you force me to. We good?”

The Iron Bull nodded, feeling badly that he had brought Stitches in here and then tried to tell him how to do his job. That wasn’t the way he managed his people. “Yeah. We’re good. You do what needs to be done.”

Stitches nodded, clasping the Iron Bull’s arm in a comforting gesture before returning to his preparations. He laid out his equipment in neat rows on clean cloths he carried in the bag, conferring with Flissa to make sure she would know which item was which, and then he and Dorian carefully moved Morvoren to the dresser. Dorian traced some kind of image in the air, a rune, the Iron Bull assumed, and then stood at Morvoren’s feet, ready to hold her down if the magic failed for some reason. The Iron Bull was allowed to hold her shoulders if necessary, although his courage began to fail him as he saw Stitches reaching for the scalpel.

The first drops of blood welled up red, and Morvoren’s eyes opened in shock at the new pain, as Stitches had predicted. She found the Iron Bull standing over her, a mute question on her face, as Dorian’s rune kept her from speaking.

“We’re taking off your arm, _kadan_ ,” he said gently, his hands on her face as he leaned over her. It was awkward, speaking to her upside down, but he wanted to make sure she couldn’t see what was being done to her. If he were being honest with himself, he also wanted to make sure he couldn’t see what was being done to her.

A single tear welled up in her eye and slid down her cheek, and he wiped it away with the pad of his thumb. “I know,” he said softly. “But we’ll work together and teach you how to compensate. You can still fight with one hand, _kadan_. I promise. And I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

She blinked rapidly. He wasn’t sure if it was from discomfort or sorrow or a question, so he kissed her lips, gently, hoping that would somehow be the answer she wanted.

Stitches was silent other than the occasional command to Flissa. The sheets and towels were being soaked through, used to slow the flow of blood so she didn’t lose more than she could afford to. The sound of the bone saw was loud in the room. Too loud. Morvoren’s eyes widened, and this time the Iron Bull understood. She wanted him to talk to her, so that she wouldn’t have to hear what was happening. He hoped she couldn’t feel it, although she’d already been in so much pain he wasn’t sure how this stacked up.

“I’ve been giving some more thought to this getting married idea, _kadan_.”

There were surprised gasps from both Dorian and Flissa, but they remained at their stations, Dorian tracing another rune in the air, as though the other one were weakening.

Morvoren rolled her eyes, and the Iron Bull chuckled. “I know, you weren’t wild about the idea, but I’m kind of thinking it would be fun to do it here, while everyone’s assembled. I bet Varric would officiate.”

“I’m certain he’d love to,” Dorian said.

The Iron Bull glanced at the mage and then looked back down at his lover. “You know, and I know, that we’re enough, the way we have been, and all I want is to go back and do more of the same, as long as possible. Fight a few dragons, take a few merc jobs with the Chargers, and loaf around and fish and swim and … spend a lot of time in bed.” He smiled at her, wanting her to be sure that what was happening here in this room was not going to change his desire for her. “But I want … I want to say words to you in front of everyone that will make it clear how much you mean to me, that will make it clear that I chose you above the Qun—above everything. I think I did that almost from the start, and I don’t regret it for a moment. I love you. You are my heart.”

Her face paled, her eyes going wide and then closing as she lost consciousness, and the Iron Bull looked up at Stitches, his heart feeling as though it had stopped beating. “Stitches!”

“Yeah, Chief. Got some bleeding here. Have to stop it. She’s lost more than I would have liked already.”

The Iron Bull got down on his knees next to his _kadan_ , wanting to weep, wanting something, someone, some higher power to believe in who might step in and intervene. That Morvoren herself believed in nothing of the kind was some comfort, he supposed, but not enough. He had always been able to get the results he wanted either by outsmarting his opponent or outwaiting them or outfighting them or simply by being bigger and stronger and tougher than anyone else. But none of that applied here. There was not a fucking thing he could do but kneel here and wait and hope and leave her fate in the hands of someone else, and it was the single hardest thing he had ever done in his life. Turning himself in to the reeducators had been a piece of cake compared to this.

He rested his cheek against her hair, hoping she could still feel his touch.

It seemed to take forever before Stitches said, wearily, “All right, that’s tied off. Let’s get the skin sewn back on, and we’ll see where we are. Dorian, as soon as I’ve finished with the stitches, I want you to release her and get two or three healing potions down her throat.”

The Iron Bull raised his head. “Is she—is she—?”

Stitches nodded. “She’s going to make it, Chief.” He gestured at the arm, lying on a towel. “That thing is still growing, though. No idea what to do with that.”

Getting to his feet, with a kiss on his _kadan_ ’s forehead, the Iron Bull said, “I’ll take it to Leliana. If she wakes up before I get back, tell her …” He didn’t know what to tell her. There were so many things he wanted her to know, chief amongst which was that he was never leaving her, not ever.

“We’ll tell her,” Dorian assured him. “Now go, so you can come back.”

With a last glance at the still figure there on the dresser, the Iron Bull caught up the Anchor and carried it out of the room.


	19. Phantom Pain

Ren came back to consciousness slowly, with an awareness of pain. She tried to move her arm, wishing it would stop. Ashkaari had said they were going to take her arm off. She had been awake while they were working on it. Why was it still there, still so damned painful?

“Don’t move,” said a voice. “Just hold still.” 

She blinked. The room was dark and it was hard to see. “Stitches?”

“Really. Don’t move. You’ll hurt yourself. Hang on.” She felt something brush her arm and then Stitches said, “Sorry; we tied you down so you couldn’t hurt yourself while you were unconscious. All right, you can try to sit up. Just … use your right hand.”

“My right hand? Why?” She came groggily to a sitting position, with Stitches’ strong hands on her back helping her move. “Is … where is the Iron Bull?”

“He’ll be back soon. He had to …” Stitches hesitated. “How much do you remember?”

Ren frowned. “I was in the War Room, and my hand …” She shook her head. “He said he was going to take it off, Stitches. Why is it still on?”

There was a faint hiss as Stitches lit a candle in the sconce on the wall.

“Look at your arm.”

“Why?” But then she saw. Where her left arm and hand used to be was a neat white bandage, tied around what appeared to be the stump of her left elbow. “But … I can feel it. It still hurts.” To her intense shame, tears came to her eyes. “Why does it still hurt?”

“Sometimes it’s like that when you take off a body part. They call it phantom pain.” More sharply, he asked, “Does it feel like the same pain as the Anchor?”

Ren tried to focus. Closing her eyes, she considered the pain. It felt different, now that she knew her arm wasn’t there any longer. Maker’s breath! Her arm wasn’t there. How would she fight? Who was she, if she couldn’t fight? The thought that stabbed her to the heart and brought tears to her eyes was whether the Iron Bull could still love someone who couldn’t fight. What if he couldn't? What would she do?

“Ren?” Stitches asked gently.

“I’m sorry, what was your question?”

“Is it the same pain as the Anchor was?”

“Oh.” This time she tried hard to keep her mind just on the pain, which still felt real even though she could see clearly that it came from nothing. “No. It’s not quite the same.”

“And you don’t feel the pain of the Anchor through the rest of your body?”

She thought about that, too. “No, I don’t think so. It’s hard to be sure.”

“I understand.”

“Stitches? Where is the Iron Bull?”

“He’ll be back soon.”

Ren couldn’t stop her eyes from filling with tears. She knew how ridiculous she must sound, even as she spoke. “He couldn’t stand to be in here with me, could he? Because I can’t fight with only one arm, so I’m not … We can’t … He doesn’t …” She threw herself against Stitches’ shoulder and sobbed.

“Whoa, hey, no, not at all.” The healer held her tightly. “Do you remember him being here during the procedure?”

“No.”

“He was. He was with you every minute, holding on to you, talking to you. You were awake for some of it, but I’m not surprised you don’t remember. He—well, it isn’t my place to tell you what he said, but it was really moving. Well … what I heard of it. I was a little busy trying to keep you alive, so I may have missed something here and there. But the last thing he said was that he loved you and you are his heart, and we all know that’s true. He’s a different man since he’s been with you, and I mean that in a good way.”

Ren wanted to believe him, but if he felt that way, why had Ashkaari left? “Where is he, Stitches?”

“He … took your arm to Leliana, to make sure no one else was in danger from the Anchor.”

“Oh.” That was strange to think of, that her arm, and the Anchor, were now a separate thing from the rest of her, technically no longer part of her at all. 

At last Stitches pulled back. “Do you think I could get you to eat something? You lost a lot of blood, and I’d like to get some hot food in you and get you some more rest to start building up your energy.”

“The Viddasala?”

“No news.”

“Did Fairbanks go after her?”

Stitches raised his eyebrows. “Not that I know of.”

Typical, Ren thought. They were probably all waiting for her to get up off her bed. “Do they all know that I can’t fight anymore?”

“They might, but I don’t. Why can’t you?” He took a small bowl of broth off a spirit lamp that had been keeping it warm, and spooned some into her mouth.

It did taste good. Ren had another spoonful before answering his question. “I only have one arm, Stitches.”

“Yeah, and the Chief only has one eye. You think it was easy for him to get used to having a blind spot in combat? But he worked hard and he got over it. Nobody fights like the Chief,” he said with pride.

No, no one did. That was for sure. Ren considered that. Ashkaari would be disappointed in her if she gave up, no doubt about it. “It’s not like I was an archer, after all. Couldn’t do that with one hand.”

“I bet someone properly motivated—say, by the need to save the world—could find a way.”

“You think so?”

Stitches nodded. He fed her some more broth. “And if they can, you can.”

The broth was almost gone when Ren heard familiar heavy footsteps in the hall outside. Her heartbeat sped up, her eyes fixed on the door.

His face when he saw her set any fears she might have had about him rejecting her at rest. “ _Kadan_ ,” he said hoarsely. “You—I—“

Discreetly, Stitches got to his feet, murmuring that he would give them some privacy, and left the room, nudging the Iron Bull in Ren’s direction as he did so.

The Iron Bull came around to the side of the bed that meant he would be approaching her good arm. “I was so—“ He shook his head. “I don’t have words for what I felt.”

She held out her hand for him, wincing at the pain—real pain, this time—in her left arm as she moved it slightly. “Stitches said you had a lot to say, before.”

Taking her hand, he pressed it against his cheek, and then his lips. “You don’t remember?”

“I don’t remember much after collapsing in the War Room. Were they all freaked out?”

“Yeah, they thought they might actually have to do something for a change.” He sank down next to her on the bed, her hand still clutched in his. With his free hand, he gently brushed her hair back off her face, his eye searching her face. “This is a big deal, _kadan_. You sure you’re all right?”

“No. But … Stitches helped. He gave me a bit of a talking to. And …” She automatically tried to gesture with her left hand at his eyepatch, and hissed in pain when the stump of the arm moved. “Well, it’s going to take some getting used to, but look how you do with one eye. A missing arm has to be easier.”

“Remind me to give Stitches a raise.”

“Ashkaari?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m scared.”

He held out his arms, and she buried her face against his chest, feeling the familiar ridges of his scars in the smooth expanse of his skin. “I know how you feel. I was so scared, _kadan_. That fucking Anchor nearly killed you.”

“Where is it?” She didn’t really want to know—it felt morbid to ask about a detached part of her body—but she needed to.

“I gave it to Leliana. She said she’d take care of it.”

“Did it … stop, when they took it off me?”

“Looked like it. Hard to tell, really, but it didn’t seem to be growing anymore, so that’s something.”

She lay there for a long time in his arms, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath her cheek and hearing the steady reassuring thump of his heartbeat, thankful beyond words for whatever piece of fate had brought him into her life. But the real world couldn’t be kept at bay forever—the Qunari were coming, the Viddasala was heading into the Darvaarad, and they needed to catch her, to stop whatever plans she had. Pulling back from the Iron Bull, she asked, “When do they want me back to work?”

He growled, shaking his head. “Too fucking soon. The idiots. That Fairbanks is just useless.”

“He’s not useless, he’s just … out of his depth.”

“So were you, _kadan_ , and the stakes were a damn sight higher, and you got it done.”

“Maybe that’s his problem, the stakes aren’t high enough.”

“A Qunari invasion’s not enough pressure for him? I’ll show him some Qunari pressure.”

Ren smiled. “That probably is what he needs, a hot Qunari behind him. Did wonders for me.”

“Did I, _kadan_?”

Seeing the seriousness in the question, she raised her hand to touch his cheek. “I could never have done any of this without you. I wouldn’t be half the person I am today without you. From the moment we met, you’ve been behind me all the way, you’ve never let me down, you’ve never faltered in your belief, even when I wished you had slightly lower expectations … and you saved my life.” She tipped her head in the direction of her left arm. “Even when I couldn’t make the decision for myself.”

“You did in the end,” he said softly. “I wouldn’t have taken it off without your permission.”

“Liar. You would, too.”

“Well, maybe I would … but only in an extremity. I’m glad it didn’t come to that.” He cupped her head, both hands smoothing over her hair. “I love you, _kadan_.”

“I love you, too.”

“Will you marry me? Please?”

“Ashkaari, I don’t—“

“For me. Because—ah, I don’t know, _kadan_ , seeing you slipping away from me like that … I know that a ceremony, a formalization, won’t keep me from losing you, I know it, but I don’t feel it.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You could have. You were so damned stubborn I was afraid you were going to just let that thing kill you.”

Ren couldn’t deny that. She had pushed the problem away until the very last minute. “I might have, if it hadn’t been for you.”

“Then … let me promise, in front of everybody, always to push you to do what you need to do.”

“The Qun doesn’t have marriage, does it?”

“The Qun doesn’t have a lot of things that you and I are together, _kadan_. But Andrasteanism does, and so does the dwarven Stone- and Ancestor-worship, and the Dalish have what they call a ‘bonding’.”

“You have been studying, haven’t you?” She leaned against his shoulder, glad for the conversation to take her mind off the throbbing, real and imagined, in her arm.

“Yeah, it’s pretty interesting the differences in belief systems, speculating on why and how they evolved the way they did. But don’t change the subject—you still haven’t said yes.”

“You say that like you expect eventually I’m going to.” Which of course he did, and she almost certainly would, but she didn’t need to admit that to him. 

“I can be very persuasive, _kadan_.”

“Also sometimes annoyingly persistent.”

“Which works, too,” he said smugly, grinning, and Ren laughed.

“Too often for your own good.”

“So say yes?”

“I’ll say this—let’s get through this damned Exalted Council, and save the fucking day, _again_ , and then if you still think this is what you want … we’ll talk about it.”

Ashkaari looked as though he was about to argue some more, but then a soft knock came at the door and it opened, Stitches looking cautiously in. “I gave you as much time as I thought prudent, but our Inquisitor really needs to get some rest, especially if you want her on her feet in fighting condition in the next day or two.”

Ren didn’t feel like she was anywhere close to being on her feet, much less in fighting condition, but she trusted Stitches. If he said she would be, she’d believe him. 

“Can I stay?” the Iron Bull asked, looking anxiously at the healer. It was as odd and disconcerting as any part of this had been, seeing her lover yield to someone else’s opinion when it came to her welfare.

Stitches nodded. “It’s probably best if you do. Try to keep her on her right side, keep her from moving that left arm too much or rolling over onto it.” He sat down on the bed on Ren’s other side and carefully unwound the bandages. “Yes, those stitches are holding nicely, and the elfroot is helping. We’ll have the Divine’s healer come in tomorrow—she’s already offered his services—and take a look, and I had Dorian look at it when it was finished and do some preliminary work, but I want your body to heal itself as much as possible this first night.” He carefully rewrapped the stump, as Ren tried not to stare at it in fascinated horror. Was that her arm? That couldn’t be her arm. That had to be someone else’s.

It was a relief to have the bandages back on. As long as she couldn’t see the actual stump, she could pretend there was some other reason that half her arm was missing, pretend it wasn’t all completely real.

Stitches patted her on the shoulder, getting up. “You’re quite a woman, Ren. We’re proud to have you as part of the Chargers.”

“Thank you.”

He left, and the Iron Bull blew out all the candles but the one in the sconce, wanting enough light to watch her by, and he stretched out behind her, holding her anchored firmly in his arms so she couldn’t roll onto the healing stump.

“You’re not going to sleep a wink all night, are you?” Ren murmured.

“After the last few days, I need to watch you all night a lot more than I need to sleep. Don’t worry about me, _kadan_. You rest and get your strength back, because once you’re recovered I’m going to work you hard on the training grounds …” He nuzzled her ear, gently. “And even harder in bed.”

“That part, I look forward to.”

She fell asleep to the sound of his low chuckle.


	20. Ready

Ren took two days to recover. It was more than they could spare, really, and she fidgeted the entire time, anxious to be moving, to get to the Viddasala and get it all over with. The way everyone hovered over her was enough to drive her around the bend by itself, without the constant worry that the Qunari were about to start a Thedas-wide war, or that Teagan and Cyril would use this opportunity to point out the weakness of the Inquisition and try to dismantle by force and fiat what they couldn’t achieve by argument. 

Even the Iron Bull, who could reasonably have been expected to understand that she needed space, was constantly underfoot. He worked with her a bit on protecting the stump, and they devised a way to strap it down for the time being until she learned to use it properly, but in general he was in the forefront of the crowd of people urging her to rest and checking every few minutes to make sure she was all right.

It would be a relief to finally go through the eluvian and get back to work.

The Iron Bull buttoned her shirt for her, kneeling in front of her. “I prefer to be doing this in the reverse,” he told her.

“I think we should probably just have all my shirts made so I can pull them on. I can’t imagine being able to do up all those buttons with one hand.”

“You’d be surprised what you can learn to do, _kadan_.”

She thought of the cliffs near her family’s home in Ostwick, all those years ago. She had learned to climb those, even though it had taken ages and she had fallen many times. But she couldn’t climb with one arm, could she? Or swim?

“Hey.” The Iron Bull’s hand captured her chin gently, holding her so that he could look into her eyes. “None of that, now. You’ve got a long path ahead of you, no one’s going to lie to you about that, but I’ll be with you every step, and all those things you’re thinking you can never do again? We’re going to do them all.”

“Dragons?”

He grinned. “Oh, yeah. There have to be a few left in Thedas we haven’t killed.” 

She grasped his horn with her remaining hand, tilting his head back so she could kiss him. “I love you, Ashkaari.”

His arms wound around her, holding her close, while he kissed her back with an intensity that gave his reply better than words could have. “I thought I was going to lose you, _kadan_ , and I didn’t know what I was going to do.”

“Now you won’t have to find out.” Both of them ignored the reality that a Qunari Viddasala was a formidable opponent, and Ren was hardly at her best. The rest and the attention from Stitches and Dorian and Leliana’s healer, Victor, had helped, but she was still weaker than she would have liked, and while the arm should be fine, she was still treating her entire left side gingerly. This upcoming fight was hardly going to be a given.

The Iron Bull helped her finish putting everything on. Only one scabbard, of course. Her left dagger was gone, lost somewhere in the eluvian. Fitting, really. She only needed the one now, anyway.

At last, they left the room, meeting … everyone, it appeared, in the little room where the eluvian was being kept firmly guarded.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen said with relief. She must look better than she thought she did, because she could practically see the tension in his shoulders ease. “You look well.”

She felt a brief pang on Morris’s behalf that the title had so easily reverted to her, but Morris was there, too, and he hadn’t batted an eye at Cullen’s remark. Morris looked her over anxiously. “You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready,” he assured her.

“Yes, she does.” Leliana’s voice was firm, but her eyes were kind. “And she knows it.”

“I do,” Ren agreed. “It’s all right, Morris. I started this, by being in the wrong place at the right time … now I’ll finish it the same way. Exactly where the Viddasala doesn’t want me.”

Dorian was looking her over, as well, but with a more clinical eye. “I could wish you had another few days—or months—to recover, but you don’t.” In a lower voice he added, “Your brother sends his well wishes.”

She gave him a startled look, and he grinned.

“Don’t look at me that way. I’ve been a perfect gentleman. He needed someone to talk to about overbearing fathers, and as that is one of my very best subjects, I was happy to oblige.”

“Cadoc didn’t come see me,” she said, only now realizing that the absence had bothered her.

“You might find this surprising, but your brother is afraid of the man-mountain there. He thought if he attempted to do so he might find himself defenestrated by the seat of his trousers, or something equally energetic.” 

Ren glanced affectionately at her lover. “His bark is much worse than his bite.”

“Hey, now, no bedroom secrets,” the Iron Bull retorted, but he was grinning as he said it.

Fairbanks, pacing impatiently in front of the mirror, snapped suddenly, “We should begin.”

“We?”

“Yes. I am going with you.”

Ren’s eyebrows flew up. “When was this decided?”

He looked significantly at her empty shirt-sleeve, neatly pinned up.

“I have enough help. Someone has to stay back here and keep watch at the palace, make sure the Qunari don’t come through in case …” Ren looked at Cullen. “You’ll stay?”

“I would come if you wished it,” he told her gently. 

“I know. Cullen, I didn’t mean any of that, what I said the other day at the War Table.”

“Yes, you did. Or at the very least, you should have. You have carried us all from the beginning, and we have not appreciated the efforts you have made enough, nor the burden you have borne.”

“A burden you have shared with me from the start,” she reminded him. “And Josephine, and Leliana, and Cassandra … you began this. With your blessing, I will go today and finish it.”

“You have it,” Leliana said immediately, and smiled. “And the blessing of the Divine is nothing to sneeze at.”

Ren laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Are we ready to get this show on the road?” Varric asked. “Long good-bye scenes can be so tedious to write.”

“Who’s saying good-bye?” Dorian asked, forcing a grin Ren could tell he didn’t feel. “I was told there would be a lovely picnic in which we would duel by determining who could tell the longest epic poem, and when our iambic pentameter had thoroughly trounced the Viddasala’s, she would return to her home and we to ours.”

“If anyone could talk somebody to death, it would be you,” the Iron Bull agreed.

“Hey!” Varric looked affronted.

“Yeah … you’re not a Vint, Varric. You try hard, but you’re not quite there.”

“If you’d like, I could give you some pointers,” Dorian suggested. “In the last chapter of _Swords & Shields_, you could have—“

Cassandra snapped, “Don’t you dare,” and then blushed deeply. Although Ren wasn’t sure why, since everyone already knew about the Seeker’s predilection for Varric’s tawdry tales. “His writing is far enough over the top as it is,” she added, clearing her throat and glaring around at all of them, daring them to comment.

No one did.

“Inquisitor, would you like me here, or would you prefer I come with you?” Blackwall asked.

“Here, please. Cullen may need your sword arm. And yours, as well, Morris and Fairbanks. Both of you can assist Josephine, much better than I ever have been able to.” She ignored Josephine’s polite murmur of disagreement and nodded at Vivienne. “If they need backup, in or out of the Council chambers? Varric, you, too? I’m sure the Viscount of Kirkwall’s voice has some weight you can lend Josephine.”

Vivienne nodded. “I will be there, naturally, Inquisitor.” 

“Less weight than you might imagine, Rusty,” Varric demurred, “but I’ll do my best.”

Ren looked at Sera. “I hear the elven servants are disappearing from both the Inquisition and the palace.”

“Lot of elfiness going on. More than usual. All obsessed with elfy things, they are.”

“Can you scout around and see if you can hear where they’re going, or why, or how … or, well, anything?”

“Not much noise on right now,” Sera said, looking anxious. “Not normal, that. Not normal at all. But I’ll find out what I can.”

“That’s all I can ask.” Ren turned to Cole. “You’re with us?”

He nodded, but his eyes were on her arm. “I can’t make it not hurt any more. Do you—do you want me to help you forget?”

“Forget that I’m missing an arm? That seems like a tall order, Cole. Better that you help me defeat the Viddasala so I can learn how to get by without it.”

“Oh.” He seemed relieved. “That I can do.”

Ren tried not to look at Cole’s daggers, to think that just a few days ago she had two good hands, two good blades to take into a fight. But of course, they hadn’t both been good hands. The pain from the Anchor had been slowing her down, distracting her, keeping her off-balance, for some time now. The argument could be made that she would be better off now.

On a sudden thought, she turned to Leliana. “Where is it?”

“I have had it frozen by magic, which seems to have halted the progress of the Anchor.” She frowned. “Or possibly the fact that there is no further life in the arm … I am sorry, that sounds insensitive.”

“No, it’s fine,” Ren lied, trying not to picture her dismembered arm and the Anchor glowing on it, frozen on a shelf somewhere. “As long as the Anchor isn’t an active danger to the Winter Palace or any of you.”

“It appears not to be, at least for now. If you can find out anything more about it on the other side of the eluvian, I would feel better about it.”

“So would I.” Ren shook her head. “I’ll look, but I haven’t had much luck so far. Maybe we’ll run into this agent of Fen’Harel, and he can tell us what’s what.”

The Iron Bull frowned. “You know who it is, don’t you, _kadan_?”

Leliana raised her eyebrows. “Solas as an agent of Fen’Harel? It makes sense.”

“That would certainly explain many things, not just about Solas himself, but about why the Qunari and the Viddasala have assumed that we are in league with this agent.”

“But … if it’s Solas, why wouldn’t he have just come to find us?”

“Because we’re all such friends?” Dorian shook his head. 

Cassandra nodded. “He didn’t even stop to say good-bye. We must hope he feels kindly toward us, but I do not believe we can count on it.”

“He’s been killing the Qunari, but it’s hard to know if that’s for us or for him.” Varric frowned. “Either way, Chuckles is the best candidate we have for this Fen’Harel agent; we’ll just have to hope he’s on our side. Or close to it.”

“Well, we won’t find out anything just standing around here,” Ren said. The longer they stood here, the more nervous she was about the eventual fighting and her fitness for it.

The Iron Bull put a familiar big hand on her good shoulder and squeezed lightly. “No time like the present,” he agreed.

Ren nodded at him, appreciating his support. She didn’t know what she would have done without him—probably died from the Anchor, she thought wryly. “Cole, Cassandra, Dorian, you ready?”

“Ready as we’ll ever be,” Dorian agreed. He nodded firmly and stepped through the eluvian, with Cole and Cassandra behind him.

Those who were staying to guard the palace dispersed, giving Ren and the Iron Bull a moment together.

“So, this is it, huh?” He put both hands on her shoulders and looked down at her, his eye on hers. “You’ll be fine. You’re ready.”

“I’m not ready, but I have to do it anyway. I … whatever happens, I wouldn’t trade the time I’ve spent with you for anything. I love you.”

“I love you, too, _kadan_.” He bent and kissed her, softly and gently, a promise of things to come, and then they both stepped through the eluvian.


	21. Crippled Dragon

The eluvians took them to a new location—some kind of castle built high on a sea cliff. It almost felt like home to Ren, except for the smashed eluvians everywhere she looked.

“What is this, an eluvian graveyard?” Dorian asked, intrigued. He moved closer to one of the mirrors, bending to study it more closely. 

Cassandra frowned. “Where did the Qunari get all these? How long have they been studying eluvians?”

“I wasn’t aware that they were,” the Iron Bull said. He sighed, hating this. He used to be the guy who knew things, and now he was the guy who knew fuck-all. It sucked. 

“Varric told me his friend Merrill, in Kirkwall, had a broken one she’d tried for years to fix. If the Dalish can’t get their hands on a working eluvian, how in Thedas did the Qunari?” Morvoren asked. She picked up a broken shard, carefully, then remembered she only had one hand and it would be awkward to turn it over and study it, so she put it back down again, shoving her right hand in her pocket where she wouldn’t have to think about it. The Iron Bull’s heart went out to her, wishing he could fix it for her—but only time could do that, and time was one thing he didn’t know if he could give her. She cleared her throat. “The sooner we stop this invasion plan, the better.”

“Agreed,” Cassandra said, nodding firmly and turning her back on the broken piles of glass.

As they made their way toward the main structure, the Iron Bull sighed again. “I wish I could say I’m surprised the Viddasala wants to murder everyone, but it makes sense. We tell stories about how corrupt the South is. Who wouldn’t want to kill the evil nobles and save the people?”

No one answered him, not that he had expected them to. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had let the Inquisition down by allowing himself to be declared Tal-Vashoth and cut off from his sources of information—but if he hadn’t, the Chargers would be dead right now, and he was sure something would have happened to tear him away from his _kadan_. 

They found their way inside the building, which appeared deserted. It was a beautiful castle, and the Iron Bull wondered where it was. Did it exist in the world, or was this some enchantment inside the eluvians? The whole thing was too confusing for him.

Meanwhile, Dorian was poking his head inside every room they passed. He stopped at one, pushing his head further in. “What’s this?” They heard him moving things around and followed him inside. The room was filled with scrolls and bits and pieces of what looked like junk to the Iron Bull. Dorian picked up a scroll, unrolled it, and frowned at it. “This is gibberish to me—all in Qunari—but it looks as though they’ve been collecting and cataloging artifacts.” He looked around him, frowning thoughtfully. “But why?”

“How many ruins must they have discovered to have unearthed so many things?” Cassandra asked, picking up a pottery shard. “This one is Nevarran, very old. From a royal crypt, unless I miss my guess.”

“What do they want with all these things?” Morvoren asked. She had her hand shoved in her pocket again, which the Iron Bull was coming to recognize as a sign that the fact that she had only one was bothering her.

“They don’t know the shape of the locks, but they know how to look for the key,” Cole said.

“Oh!” Dorian looked at him, intrigued. “You’re saying these artifacts open the mirrors?”

Morvoren’s face brightened with memory. “That’s right. Morrigan told me the key could be anything—including knowledge.”

“So they’re stockpiling anything they think might be useful in that capacity. Makes sense. That’s how they opened so many—trial and error.” The Iron Bull looked around him, impressed as he so often was by the way his people got things done—often through just this kind of sheer stubbornness and infinite patience. He ran his hand over a dragon skull lurking in the corner of the room. “This would make a wicked armchair, though. You think we could take it home with us, _kadan_?” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

As he had hoped she would, she snorted and said, “I think it would be easier to kill another dragon ourselves.”

He grinned at her, hoping she couldn’t see how happy he was that she was thinking so positively ahead, and said, “I’m going to hold you to that.”

“We have to get out of here first,” she reminded him.

Even as she spoke, a cry resounded through the building. A very familiar cry, one the two of them had heard several times flying above them.

Dorian closed his eyes and groaned quietly. “Even the Qunari aren’t that literal, are they?”

Cassandra shook her head. “Dragon’s breath. We ought to have guessed.”

“That’s not a healthy dragon,” the Iron Bull said. “You hear that? So shaky and … broken?”

Morvoren nodded. “Something’s wrong with it. A crippled dragon,” she said softly, pulling her right hand out of her pocket and looking at it. “Literal indeed.” She lifted her head and met his eye. “An _ataashi_ needs our help.”

“Let’s go.”

Of course all the Qunari in the castle were congregated near the dragon, which was, indeed, sickly. It had clearly been chained up here for a long time, and appeared to have been fed something that made it look an awful lot like Morvoren’s lost Anchor.

One of the Qunari heard them coming and sounded the alarm, and from a door high up in the wall the Viddasala emerged, calling for everyone within hearing to come to her aid and kill the Inquisitor. The Iron Bull briefly considered pointing out that his _kadan_ was technically not the Inquisitor, but the Viddasala lacked the whimsy necessary for that tactic to have any effect whatsoever. Even pointing out that the Anchor had been removed was unlikely to change things at this juncture. 

And they were coming, in orderly rows, faces set toward the Inquisition party, ready to attack.

Incredibly, unbelievably, the Viddasala looked at him. “Hissrad, please! Now! _Vinek kathas_.”

The call to attack. To attack his friends, his lover, his very heart. Now, after everything that had gone before. “Are you out of your mind? Now? After all this time? Not a fucking chance.” He stepped ostentatiously in front of his _kadan_ , sending the message loud and clear. “You want her, you come through me.”

The Viddasala looked genuinely grieved, as though somehow she had counted on his continued loyalty to the Qun all this time. “If those are your terms, I have no choice but to accept.” She looked at the rows of Qunari. “Kill the Inquisitor, and everyone who stands with her.”

And she was gone through the door.

The Qunari were advancing slowly, one step at a time, a tactic used to make them seem indomitable and inevitable. Most of the time it scared the shit out of their opponents. For now, the Iron Bull was grateful for the brief moment’s respite. 

Morvoren put her hand on his arm, looking up at him questioningly, and Dorian said, “You all right?”

He nodded. “The Iron Bull is just fine. Drinks on me when this is over—probably a lot ‘em.” Pulling his _kadan_ close, he kissed her, hard. “I choose you. Every day.”

“I know. I choose you, too.”

“You ready for this?” He looked at her searchingly, wanting to know she was confident enough to take on the oncoming rows of his people.

Her blue eyes were wide and scared and not as sure as he would have liked, but she squared her shoulders and nodded. “If you’re with me.”

“Always,” he promised.

“Then let’s do this.”

Together, they turned to face his people. 

Their rhythm was a little off, not quite as smooth as usual, Morvoren clearly struggling to fight one-handed, but it was better than he had anticipated. Once she wasn’t thinking about it, she managed to fight almost normally, her muscles falling into their habitual patterns. And with Cassandra and Cole and Dorian with them, fighting as the unit they had been for so long, it took remarkably little time to get through some of the Qunari’s best men. If anyone had told him on Seheron that one day he would be fighting his own people with a Vint, a Nevarran princess, a half-spirit in a dead kid’s body, and a red-haired former noblewoman of the South, and that they would win, he would have laughed in their faces.

But today that happened, and at last they came through to the room where the chained dragon roared weakly at them, her venom dribbling from her mouth. “Boss, we fighting this dragon or what?” he asked.

Morvoren looked at the dragon sorrowfully. “There’s no honor in this. Her captors have already mutilated her. It seems needlessly cruel to kill her.”

“Isn’t it just as cruel to let her go, damaged as she is?” Cassandra asked.

Morvoren’s shoulders stiffened, and the Iron Bull glared at the Seeker, who had clearly not picked up on the way the Inquisitor was identifying with the tortured, damaged dragon.

“Of course, she can heal, given the chance,” Cassandra said hastily.

Any other time, Morvoren would have seen through the Seeker’s lame response immediately, but now she was distracted, walking toward the dragon with her hand out. “Let’s get that gate open,” she said softly. But it was an order, and the others jumped to carry it out, finding the mechanism to open the gates.

The dragon turned, and the Iron Bull could almost see bliss on her face when the gates opened and she felt fresh air again.

He raised his blade, bringing it down on the weakest part of the chain that held the dragon’s leg, feeling the metal split beneath his strike. The dragon craned its neck to look down at the chain, then up at him. Then she looked back outside, flapped her wings experimentally, and took off.

“There she goes.”

“There goes our dragon,” Morvoren said softly. 

He put his arm around her shoulders. “We’re going to need a bigger cabin if you want to bring her home.”

She chuckled. “I don’t think she’d feel very comfortable after you made a chair out of her cousin’s skull.”

“Good point.”

“If you two are done having your moment, can we discuss the next step in the plan?” Dorian asked. 

“We go after the Viddasala,” Morvoren said simply. “And we don’t stop until she’s dead.”

“You think killing the Viddasala will neutralize the Qunari threat?” Cassandra asked.

The Iron Bull nodded. “Taken in conjunction with destroying the lyrium mine and catching the gaatlok barrels before they could carry out the plan, it’ll set things back, at the very least.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Dorian asked. 

They all looked at the Inquisitor.

“Nothing,” she said decisively. “We’re ready.”


	22. The Way of Blades

Another line of Qunari awaited them in front of the eluvian. 

“How many of these guys are they going to throw at us?” Ren growled in frustration.

“Too many. There aren’t that many of us to start with,” the Iron Bull said. “Seems like a waste of resources to me.”

Dorian glanced at him. “Mind telling them that? We’ll wait.”

The Viddasala was ushering some of her people through the eluvian. “ _Parshaara_!” she snapped at them. 

Ren’s Qunlat wasn’t great, but she knew that one—the Iron Bull had translated it as “enough”. Enough of what? she wondered. Enough fighting? Enough men? Enough time wasted? It didn’t matter at the moment. What lay in front of them mattered, and that was an exhausting number of Qunari, wickedly sharp pikes pointed in their direction.

There was a silence as they all stared at one another. “Why don’t they attack?” she muttered to the Iron Bull.

“Those aren’t their orders.”

The Viddasala stepped to the side, where she was still protected by the line of men but Ren and her party could see her clearly. Her eyes were on the empty space where Ren’s arm and the Anchor had been. “Dear Inquisitor, I see that you have finally realized the truth.”

“That I can beat you with one hand tied behind my back?”

There was no humor in the Viddasala’s face in response to the flippant remark, although she did tilt her head curiously as though she thought Ren might actually have her severed arm tied to her belt behind her back. “Elven magic has already torn the sky apart. If the agent of Fen’Harel isn’t stopped, he will shatter the world, destroying it as he has already destroyed your arm—and tried to destroy you.”

“Might as well just use his name,” the Iron Bull said. “What did you do to piss Solas off so much?”

Ren shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. What the Anchor was all about doesn’t matter. What matters is that this woman wants to commit mass assassination on the countries of southern Thedas, and I’m not going to let her.” At a sharp look from the Iron Bull, she amended, “We’re not.”

“The South was poisoned by this elf’s manipulation,” the Viddasala said. She looked puzzled. “Can you not see that? It suffers just as you have. You would have died from the mark on your hand.”

The Iron Bull shook his head. “Never would have happened.”

“Hissrad. You have made your choice, however foolish and doomed. It would have been kinder to let her die.”

He lifted his weapon, black anger on his face, and the sharp shining pikes turned in his direction.

Ren began to reach for him with her left hand, swallowing against the anguish that filled her when it wasn’t there, and settled instead for shaking her head at him. He put the weapon down, but the anger didn’t leave his eye, which smoldered darkly at the Viddasala.

The Qunari leader looked back at Ren. “You were played for a fool, Inquisitor. He saved you from certain death by the mark on your hand, helped you seal the Breach, led you to Skyhold. He gave Corypheus the orb, and founded the Inquisition.”

Laid out like that, the enormity of Solas’s role struck Ren hard. He really had been behind every step they’d taken. But why? What had he gotten out of it; what had he hoped to get? Had it just been in the hope of recovering his orb from Corypheus? Or had there been more to it?

“He used us,” Cassandra said sadly. “He was manipulating us all along.”

“He tricked us all,” the Viddasala agreed, to Ren’s great surprise. “He pushed a dying Qunari into the Winter Palace, to lure you into opposing us.”

“Lure us?” Ren echoed. “Hardly needed.”

“You would never have known, not until we were prepared for you to do so, and by then it would have been too late. We could have brought the South peace and wisdom along the gentle path.”

The Iron Bull snorted derisively, but the Viddasala ignored him.

“Now we must take the way of blades.”

“It would always have come to blades,” Cassandra declared. “The South would not have been as easy a target as you hope, even with our leaders taken from us.”

The heads of state weren’t the leaders of the armies, anyway, in many cases, Ren thought. The armies wouldn’t have been harmed by bombs in the palaces—that would only have made space for more military-minded leaders.

The Viddasala nodded to Ren. “ _Panahedan_ , Inquisitor. If it is any consolation, Solas will not outlive you.” She looked at the line of her men. “Kill her. And the rest.”

A giant saarebas followed her through the mirror, while the other Qunari bristled, their pikes presented, ready to strike.

The Iron Bull gave a great shout, and then he was on them, his blade everywhere. Dorian’s lightning spiked and danced along the Qunari’s blades and up their arms, turning their faces into rictuses of pain. Cassandra’s shield smashed into them, one after another, knocking them backward, her shield arm never tiring, even as her sword sliced into their relatively unprotected skin. And Cole dodged in and out of the Fade, his knives flashing. Ren drew hers and joined battle, trying to let her body fall into its normal patterns, trying not to think about the missing arm and the imbalance.

When the Qunari were down, Dorian put his staff away. Sweat glistened on his skin, and he was breathing heavily from the fight. He looked at the mirror. “Are we just going to let her kill Solas?”

“Void, no,” Ren snapped. “He was one of us. I’m not leaving him for the Viddasala. I’m getting some answers … and then if there’s killing to be done, I’ll do it myself. Let’s go.”

She led them through the mirror.

On the other side, elven ruins. Old ones, stonework fallen and crumbling and covered in hanging vines and other greenery. They had to watch their step, the footing not easy to find. Ren stumbled and fell to her knees, her balance off with the arm missing, and caught herself on one hand. But she had automatically put both arms out, or tried to, and the right arm buckled under the unexpected impact, the weight distribution off. She cried out, smashing face-first into a moss-covered rock.

Immediately, Ashkaari was there, lifting her gently back up, kneeling at her side and brushing the moss and blood off her face, and Dorian knelt at her other side, his magic washing through her, repairing the cuts to her face and the sprain in her right elbow.

“You should all go on without me,” she told them. “I’m all but useless this way.”

“You are not,” Dorian told her, his tone gentle but scolding. “Don’t even say such things.”

“It’s going to take time, _kadan_. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Cassandra put her hands on her hips, scowling down at Ren. “Do get to your feet. You look like the prisoner I first met after the Conclave, not like the Inquisitor I learned to follow and call my friend. Are you going to allow a lost arm to make you less than you are?”

Ren blinked back tears, looking up at the Seeker, who was an imposing sight, tall and righteously angry. She wanted to cry, wanted to beat her remaining fist against the ground and scream at the unfairness of it all, tell anyone who would listen that she had never asked for this, and she didn’t want it, and all she really wanted was her arm back. But that wasn’t true, was it? She wanted to save the world—again—and to go home with her lover and to see her friends off to better lives, and all of that came from having had the Anchor in the first place. She could no more take back all the emotions she had felt in the last several years or the friends she had made than she could reattach her arm. She shook her head, angry at herself. “No. No, I’m not.”

“Good. Get up.” Cassandra extended a hand and Ren took it, allowing the Seeker to pull her to her feet. They looked at each other, and Cassandra’s steely grey eyes softened. “I … am not lacking in sympathy.”

“I know it. And I am grateful for your friendship,” Ren told her.

The Iron Bull and Dorian both got up as well. Cole wandered toward them, his eyes on the sky. “We should go. The world shakes and trembles, hanging in the balance.”

“Yeah, and the Viddasala can’t be too far ahead,” the Iron Bull added.

“She seeks answers, but she doesn’t know the questions. Or she asks the wrong ones. Or she thinks she already knows the answers, and doesn’t want to hear anything else.” Cole frowned. “She just wants it to be easier.”

“Who doesn’t?” Ren snapped. 

“It’s all right, _kadan_. It’s almost over.”

“Is it? Because that’s what I thought when Corypheus died, but then there was Hakkon. And the Titan. And now this. When does it ever end?”

“Cullen has been asking himself the same question for a long time,” Cole said, shaking his head sorrowfully. “He doesn’t have the answer, either.”

“Well, then, let us get him one. And you, too, Inquisitor,” Cassandra said. “Let us end this all here and now, once and for all.”

Ren nodded. “All right. Let’s see if we can.”

As battle cries went, it wasn’t much, but they all moved forward together, and that was what mattered.

More Qunari awaited them in the midst of what once must have been a beautiful courtyard, arrayed in battle stance. Ren saw a glance between Cassandra and the Iron Bull, as they steeled themselves for another struggle. The two of them were taking the brunt of every encounter, putting themselves between the Qunari and herself and Dorian. Cole assisted, the spirit half in and half out of the Fade as he danced around, but he wasn’t the focus of any attack. Ren felt guilty, knowing that she should be taking on more of the focus in the fray than she was. Even the Qunari were discounting her now, with her missing arm, as though she was only a token part of the fight. But she was trying her best! She’d had only days to adjust to being a one-armed person, much less a one-armed fighter.

Even as she drew her dagger and took her part in the fight, her body largely falling into its learned positions and responses, she wondered why they were doing this. The Viddasala’s plans had fallen apart. Her dragon was gone, her lyrium mines destroyed, the eluvians no longer a safe haven for her. The Inquisition had functionally ended Dragon’s Breath, and had killed the vast majority of the troops the Viddasala seemed to have at her command. These were among the last—older fighters, younger, greener fighters, who tired more easily than the front line troops had. The Viddasala had nothing left. So why pursue her any further? Out of concern for Solas? He had played them like a harp, on behalf of Fen’Harel, and he had left them without a trace as soon as Corypheus’s orb was broken beyond repair.

But he was Inquisition. He had been there from the beginning. He had saved Ren’s life when the mark would have claimed it after the Conclave; he had led them all to Skyhold. Ren owed it to him to save him from the Viddasala’s vengeance. And she had to admit to some curiosity—she wanted to know why he had helped them, and why he had left them, and why he was back. And so she would fight through what was left of the Qunari to get the answers to those questions, and she would let the Iron Bull decide what to do with the Viddasala. He had earned that.


	23. The Last Eluvian

One more mirror, another valley, sunlit and filled with ruins. The saarebas awaited them in front of what Ren devoutly hoped was the last eluvian, the Viddasala nowhere to be found.

“Let’s do this,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound as weary as she felt.

“It’s almost over,” Ashkaari told her softly, and she knew he was right—they were all tired and bloodied and almost fought out. One way or another, this would be the last fight, right here in this place that didn’t actually exist.

“I love you,” she told him, and he nodded, not arguing with her finality. That was the scariest thing she had seen yet. If even he was sure he was almost done, then what hope did they have?

“You are the best thing that ever happened to me,” he said, and then he was sprinting across the field, blade raised. Ren wanted to call after him, tell him not to waste the energy he had left, but it was too late—he was already closing in on the saarebas.

Dorian’s magic was there, paralyzing the saarebas long enough for the Iron Bull to strike, but his blade was nicked and dulled from the fights to get here, and it glanced off the harness his fellow Qunari wore. A blast of magic from the saarebas caught the Iron Bull in the stomach and sent him flying back across the field. 

Ren went down on her knees next to him. “Ashkaari!”

“I’m fine,” he gritted out from between clenched teeth. “Get him!”

She didn’t need any further encouragement. Looking up, she caught the eyes of Cassandra and Dorian, nodding, and the three of them pressed the attack with magic and blades. Cole gave a last concerned glance at the Iron Bull, who took three tries to get up off the ground, and then danced to the other side of the saarebas to flank him.

The Iron Bull raised his blade above his head and shouted a war cry. The ignominious face-off against the saarebas and the dirt and grass and pebbles adhering to his back and his pants had clearly angered him and given him a new burst of energy. He was limping slightly, but he wasn’t letting that slow him down.

Five of them, the cream of the Inquisition strike team, against one Qunari saarebas, and it was as much as they could to do protect themselves and each other from his magic and to batter at his defenses whenever they got them down enough to reach him. Ren despaired; how were they ever going to succeed, to get through the mirror, to catch the Viddasala, to save Solas, to get some damned answers from that cagy elf?

The Iron Bull had been thinking the same. In a momentary breather while Cassandra took the brunt of the saarebas’s magic against her shield, he caught Ren by her shoulder. “You have to go through!”

“What?”

“Through the eluvian. You have to go!”

“I can’t stand against the Viddasala.”

“Yes, you can. I know you can!” He gave her shoulder a shake. “And you have to. You’re the one she wants; you’re the only one who can get to her. And the only one Solas would talk to.”

That part was true. Ren and Solas had never been close, but he was far more likely to talk to her than to any of the others. But that was beside the point. “I can’t leave you.”

“You did it before,” he reminded her, and she winced, thinking of the fight against Corypheus. “And you were right—that was your fight. This is, too. You have to prove to yourself that you can do this. You have to finish this, once and for all, finish your job as Inquisitor.”

She didn’t bother to argue. All of this Exalted Council nonsense had proved to her that she was the only one who had truly believed she was no longer the Inquisitor. “But you—you’ll—“ She couldn’t finish the sentence.

“No,” he said firmly. “I won’t. I’ll be here waiting for you. I promise.”

“You promise?”

Holding her gaze, he nodded. “Now go.”

His fingers grazed her jaw in a last caress, and then without another word he turned and ran at the saarebas, attacking with a renewed ferocity. Ren recognized the chance he was giving her, and she sprinted for the eluvian.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the saarebas turn, saw its arm rising into the air, and then saw a great blade come out of the sky, biting into the arm and knocking it off-course so that the spell it was about to cast shot harmlessly across into a hillock, impacting with a spray of dirt and grass. Ren practically dove into the eluvian, knowing that if she stopped to worry about how the others were going to defeat this thing without her she would never go, so she didn’t even hesitate to hope the eluvian would let her through, taking the chance that she wouldn’t end up in a shower of glass.

And, of course, she didn’t. 

The other side was another elven ruin. Ren had to admit she was getting rather tired of them, although they were far better than the Deep Roads, so at least that was something.

The stump of her missing arm was throbbing, and she felt weak and dizzy. She took a few precious seconds to stop and catch her breath and to chew some elfroot leaves from the pack at her hip. It was torn, and some of the leaves had spilled out, but she had enough to get her through, or at least, she hoped she did. Despite Ashkaari’s supportive words, she didn’t give herself very good odds at all if she had to face down the Viddasala in her current condition, but there was time enough to worry about that once she had to. For now, she had to keep going.

Ren forced her legs to keep moving. The stairs in front of her were dotted with Qunari, frozen into stone in the process of attacking someone. Solas, no doubt. She thought briefly and sourly that if he’d had this power all along, it would have been nice if he could have used it during the fights they’d been in together.

She wove her way through the statues, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other and on not thinking about what awaited her.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
After Morvoren dove through the mirror, it stopped shimmering and became a dull expanse of leaden grey. The Iron Bull swallowed against the bile that rose in his throat. If he had sent her through to her death, there was nothing he could do about it; she was cut off from him completely. Had he saved her from the Anchor only to lose her to one of his own people? Would she ever be able to get out? Could she truly stand against the Viddasala in her condition? If he could have turned back the clock those few minutes and not sent her through, he would have done so. Anything to have her back here in front of him where he could protect her.

But there was no time for that now. The saarebas was weakening very slowly—far more slowly than they were, given how much more fighting they had done today than he had. It would take everything the four of them had left, every trick they had learned over the years fighting next to each other, to wear him down and take him out, and there was no guarantee that they could succeed. The Iron Bull turned his attention to the fight, ignoring the pain in his knee, the weariness in his arms as the muscles protested against the weight of his blade, the sweat that stung and blinded him as it trickled into his eye. He had fought in worse places, in worse conditions, and he was still standing, he told himself.

He couldn’t remember the last time his blade had felt so heavy. Each of his strikes seemed as slow and as clumsy as he had been long ago when he first learned to fight. But he was striking, and so was Cassandra, although her sword arm seemed equally slow and her shield as heavy. Cole’s daggers were moving more slowly than usual, as well, but that just meant the Iron Bull could see them for once. The kid seemed the freshest of them all, doggedly pressing the attack, his head down and his hair flopping, apparently unnoticed, into his eyes. Dorian was staggering a bit, his eyes wide, pupils dilated. Too much lyrium. The Iron Bull hoped the mage wouldn’t run out. That was the last thing they needed. 

The saarebas seemed to have endless reserves of power. Qunari training at its finest, right here. Despite his weariness and his worry and his anger, the Iron Bull had to admire his people and the way they fought. In a real war, the South would have the Void of a time standing against them, a constant worry that he tried to keep safely tucked away in the back of his mind. There would be time enough to be concerned about that later. One consolation to all of this was how many Qunari they had killed in the process. If they could prevail in this fight, and Morvoren could kill the Viddasala, they would have dealt some significant damage to the Qunari’s ability to invade the South, maybe put off the inevitable by a matter of years.

The thought sent renewed energy coursing through him. “Come on, you asshole!” he shouted at the saarebas. “Is that all you’ve got?”

“Bull, is that really necessary?” Dorian asked wearily.

“Yeah. We kill this guy, we win.” He left out any question of whether Morvoren would succeed at her task. She had to, for one, and she had never failed them, for another. “And I want to fucking win and get this over with!”

“As do I,” Cassandra said with determination. She shifted her grip on the shield. “Let us finish this.”

“He fears what he doesn’t understand. And he does not understand that one can gain strength from another. He knows only that he fights the enemies of his people, not why he does it.” Cole shook his head. “He has no friends.”

“I’ll be happy to offer him my sympathies—after we kill him,” Dorian said. He spun his staff in his hands in a reasonable reflection of his usual flamboyance.

Together, with the strength of long-standing friendship and sure knowledge of each other’s style, and a renewed sense of purpose, they attacked. The saarebas was weary, and in his eyes the Iron Bull could see a puzzlement, an uncertainty, caused by the idea that all his training, all his superior power and skill, hadn’t been able to defeat them. They were bloodied, they were injured, they were edging toward utter exhaustion, but they weren’t beaten. Nor would they be. 

And they weren’t. It wasn’t easy, but they prevailed at last. When the saarebas was down, his blood soaking into the ground beneath him, Dorian collapsed, lying sprawled on the ground with his face turned to the side so he could breathe. Cassandra stooped over him, her hand on his shoulder, and then she sat suddenly and with an audible grunt, her legs unable to hold her up any further.

“I’m fine,” Dorian said, not opening his eyes.

“Of course you are,” she agreed. Her head drooped between her drawn-up knees and she didn’t even lift a hand to wipe away the trickle of blood running down the side of her face from a cut on her temple. It was shallow, the Iron Bull judged, and not worth worrying about in her current state. Or his own. He was barely on his feet, but he couldn’t sit and relax. Not now. He paced restlessly back and forth in front of the mirror, its smooth slate face mocking him with its impassibility. On the other side of that thing, in some other shadowy realm of a forgotten world, his own world was fighting her own battle, and he couldn’t get to her. 

“She makes her way among stone and sun toward the one who started it all,” Cole said softly.

“Then what does she do?”

“What she always does,” the spirit told him. It was oddly comforting, if only for a moment.


	24. Talking of the Past

Ahead of her, Ren could hear a familiar calm, precise voice speaking in Qunlat. She strained to understand the words, but her grasp of the language was shaky at best, and in her current state of mind it was impossible to call to memory the meanings of the sounds.

As the Viddasala’s voice, angry and determined, joined Solas’s, Ren pushed herself to run in the direction of the voices despite her weariness. There was still time to save Solas. 

“Your forces have failed,” he was saying, now in the common tongue. “Leave now, and tell the Qunari to trouble me no further.”

Dimly, Ren realized he was hardly speaking like someone whose life was in danger. Rather, he sounded as though the Viddasala was in danger from him. Was that true? She looked at the stone statues of Qunari all around her with new eyes. Solas had done all this. He had caused damage and distruction to Qunari after Qunari, all through this world beyond the eluvians. Perhaps she had never had to worry about his safety.

She still had to find out what it all meant, though, why he had begun the Inquisition, why he had chosen to attack the Qunari this way rather than coming to her and the others and joining forces. 

Coming around a corner, she saw them both standing there. Solas, dressed in armor like that of the elves in the Arbor Wilds; the Viddasala, impotently angry. Neither of them glanced in Ren’s direction.

The Viddasala raised her arm, aiming a spear at Solas. His eyes flashed blue, and immediately she, too, was stone, just like the others.

Only then did Solas look at Ren. “Inquisitor.”

“Solas.”

He gave a faint smile. “I suspect you have questions.”

“You might say so, yes.” It seemed surreal to be standing here so peacefully, with what seemed like all the time in the world, after countless hours through the endless eluvians fighting to get here. “The Qunari were trying to kill you,” she said to him. “I was trying to get here first.” It seemed a futile effort now.

“They sought an agent of Fen’Harel. What they found is that I am no one’s agent but my own. The truth is much simpler, and much worse, than what the Qunari believe.”

Her eyes widened as his meaning sunk in. “That’s impossible.”

“For you, perhaps, you who believe in nothing beyond the world that you know. I have often wondered if that makes the world easier for you to bear, or harder. Your Iron Bull, what does he think?”

“He’s taken to studying the religions of Thedas. I’m not sure even he knows what to believe any longer.”

“He is much wiser than he is aware of. It may interest you to know that I was Solas first, long ago. ‘Fen’Harel’ came later. It was an insult that I adopted as a badge of pride. The ‘Dread Wolf’ inspired hope in my friends and fear in my enemies.” He smiled again, a bit more broadly this time. “Not unlike ‘Inquisitor’.”

“A name it seems I cannot escape.”

“So it is with all burdened with names of such meaning that they all but replace the truth of who you are.” He sighed. “I sought to set my people free from slavery to would-be gods. I broke the chains of all who wished to join me. And when the false gods finally went too far, I formed the Veil and banished them forever.”

Ren stared at him. That was … that couldn’t be. If she had been standing anywhere else, hearing those words from anyone else, she would have utterly refused to believe them. 

“Thus I freed the elven people,” Solas continued, “and in so doing, destroyed their world.”

“How?”

“The lives of my people, everything they had built, were intrinsically tied to the Fade. When the Veil blocked the Fade away and created a reality without it, the people, the world … could not function. Not as they had done.” He shook his head, pain written nakedly on his face. “The Veil took everything from the elves. Even themselves, their immortality lost with their connection to the Fade. I did that.”

“But you love the Fade. Why would you have hidden it away?”

“Put simply, I had no alternative which would not have been worse. Left undone, the Evanuris would have destroyed the world.”

“What did they do that made you so certain of that?” Ren very much wished she had paid more attention to Dorian’s discussions of elven lore, to the pieces she had stumbled across in her travels. It had simply never seemed relevant to the task at hand. Corypheus had been the challenge. Red lyrium, Red Templars, Venatori—real, tangible things to fight. She had never been good at wrapping her head around intangible things.

“They killed Mythal. A crime for which an eternity of torment is a fitting punishment.”

“But … isn’t Mythal one of those gods?”

Solas nodded. “She was. The best of them. She truly cared for her people, protected them to the best of her ability. She was a voice of reason. And in their lust for power, they killed her. As you have seen, Inquisitor, war breeds fear, and fear, in its turn, breeds a desire for … simplicity. Good versus evil. Right and wrong.”

“Sometimes it is simple.”

“Yes. That is what you believe. But even you must admit that many times, it is not.” Ren nodded, reluctantly, and Solas saw the reluctance and chuckled. “You weary of talking of the past, I can see that. You have done well to be patient with me this long. You would not have, when we first met.”

“Why were you there, Solas? What brought you to the Inquisition?”

“Folly.” He looked down, shaking his head. “I lay in dark and dreaming sleep while countless wars and ages passed. I woke, still weak, only a year before I met you. I had my agents encourage the Venatori in the right direction to discover my orb, but it had built up its magical energy while I lay unconscious for millennia. I found myself too weak to open it myself. I had planned for Corypheus to unlock it, and for the resulting explosion to kill him, and then I would claim the orb, enter the Fade using the Anchor you bore, and tear down the Veil. And then, as this world burned in the raw chaos, I planned to restore the lost world of my time. The world of the elves.” He glanced at her missing arm. “I see your Iron Bull did what needed to be done.”

Ren nodded. “Almost too late.”

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

“Yeah, me, too. So what went wrong with Corypheus?” Ren asked, not wanting to discuss her arm any further.

Solas sighed. “I did not foresee a Tevinter magister having learned the secret of effective immortality.”

“So you formed the Inquisition? The Qunari accused us of working for agents of Fen’Harel.”

His eyes warmed with humor. “I gave no orders.”

“Perhaps not, but you led us to Skyhold.”

He nodded. “Corypheus should have died unlocking my orb. When he did not, my plans were thrown into chaos. But then, you survived, as well, and I saw the Inquisition as the best hope this world had of stopping him. With you at its head. But you needed a home, a secure base from which to grow. Hence, Skyhold.” 

Ren smiled at him. “For whatever it’s worth, thanks for the castle.”

“For whatever it’s worth, you have used it well.” He gazed at her solemnly. “You have been patient with this tale of things past long enough, Inquisitor, and I know that is not your usual realm. Shall we speak now of the future?”

“Will you tell me what you plan to do?” 

He looked at her as if considering how much to reveal. At last he said, “My people fell because of what I did … but still some hope remains for restoration.” He nodded firmly. “I will save the elven people, even if it means that this world must die.”

“Die?” Ren echoed, horrified. “Why?”

Solas studied her again, but at last, he shook his head. “A good question, but not one I will answer.”

“Because you don’t know, or because you haven’t considered your options beyond trying to roll back a thousand years of history built while you slept?” Ren asked.

He smiled. “You have always been direct with me, and I respect that. It would be too easy to tell you more than is prudent, and that I cannot afford.” He met her eyes squarely. “I will tell you this: I am not Corypheus. I take no joy in what I must do. But the return of my people means the end of yours.”

“Your people are gone, Solas. The elves now are … what they are. You can’t erase what has happened to them.”

“You don’t know that.”

Ren found herself blinking back tears. She and Solas had never been close, but this was … beyond anything she had expected. “I never thought of you as someone who could do such a thing.”

He looked away, unable to meet her eyes. “Thank you,” he said softly. Then he lifted his head, and in a stronger voice continued, “But you must understand how this has been for me, to awake in a world where the Veil had blocked most people’s conscious connection to the Fade. It was how you might feel walking through a world of Tranquil.”

Ren shivered. That sounded unpleasant … but unpleasant enough to destroy the world over? She had a hard time imagining it. “You mean we aren’t even people to you?”

“Not at first,” Solas agreed. “But you showed me I was wrong, you and the others. That does not make what must come next any easier.” He cleared his throat. “For now, you should be more concerned about the Inquisition. Your Inquisition.”

“Our Inquisition,” Ren corrected.

He smiled again. “Thank you for that. You are very generous. You always have been.”

“Why should I be concerned?” 

“In stopping the Dragon’s Breath, you have prevented a Qunari invasion. With luck, they will return their focus to Tevinter, a war they are more accustomed to waging. That should give you a few years of relative peace.”

“Yes, that sounds very comforting,” Ren said dryly.

“It is as much as I can offer you.”

“Why bother offering me anything, disrupting the Qunari plot, if you’re going to destroy the world regardless?”

“Because of you. You have shown me that there is value in this world. I take no pleasure in what I must do, and I wish to spare you as much pain and leave you as much joy as I can in the process.”

Ren felt the weight of her years as Inquisitor, the burden of all the lives whose welfare she cared for, settle on her shoulders again, but she also felt a new strength allowing her to bear it, now that there was a fight and a goal again. She squared her shoulders and faced Solas. “You know that I will come to stop you, that I will not rest as long as you remain a danger to the world.”

“I would expect nothing less of you. I will not even waste my breath by telling you that your efforts are certain to be futile.” He nodded at her. “Live well, my friend, while time remains.”

He walked off through the ruins. Ren considered following after him, but he had told her as much as he intended to—and she had no desire to become a statue.

Off to her right, the surface of another eluvian rippled, and she went to it and stepped through, ready to take up once again the burden she had tried so hard to lay down.


	25. On Her Shoulders Again

Ren’s momentary concern that the eluvian was going to take her somewhere that wouldn’t allow her to return to the Inquisition and begin to anticipate what Solas might do was relieved as she stepped through to the other side and found herself in the now-familiar room in the Winter Palace that housed its eluvian. And, even better, found herself immediately folded into the arms of the Iron Bull.

He held her close and she could feel the relief in him, in the pounding of his heart beneath her ear and the strength of the grip that held her against him.

“I’m all right,” she told him.

“The Viddasala, did she—is she—?”

“She’s a statue.” Ren started to explain more, but she realized the room was still filled with soldiers, and the others, Cassandra and Dorian and Cole, stood off to the side. She faked a yawn—which wasn’t overly difficult, as she was genuinely exhausted. “I’m so tired, can we go somewhere I can sit down?” She knew Ashkaari would see through her, knowing her as he did.

“Of course, _kadan_.”

She pulled away from him for a moment to exercise one last bit of curiosity and push on the surface of the eluvian. As she had expected, the mirror was now just a dull piece of glass; it didn’t even reflect. No chance of following Solas through that now, if there had ever been.

Together they went to the makeshift War Room, where Leliana paced restlessly back and forth behind the table, staring down at it as if it held answers. She looked up when they came in, her face expectant. “Did you find him?”

“How secure is this room?” Ren asked.

The former Left Hand of the Divine understood exactly what she meant. “Not so secure as the War Room at Skyhold, but as much as is possible in the Winter Palace.”

“All right, then.” Ren considered quickly how much was safe to say. Was it possible to tell how many people Solas had stationed in the Palace? They were almost certain to be elves, but could she trust that they were only elves? Not completely. “Solas is alive. I had no reason to fear for his safety at the hands of the Viddasala, not there on the other side of the eluvian. She—and all the other Qunari who went after him there—are statues of stone. He turned them that way with a gesture.”

“Really?” Dorian asked, surprised. “I never thought he was such a powerful mage.”

“He’s not,” Ren said. “He’s a god.”

“What?” All of them were staring at her now.

“What do you mean?” Cassandra demanded.

“Solas wasn’t an _agent_ of Fen’Harel.”

The Iron Bull gave a low whistle as the implication of her words sank in. “You’re shitting me.”

“I wish I was. But I have no reason not to believe him. His story is that he created the Veil to stop what he called the Evanuris, elven mages who wanted to be gods, apparently. The Veil was to cut them off from the rest of the elves—but in so doing he cut off the elves’ immortality and their access to magic.”

“The world was the Fade, and the Fade was the world,” Cole said softly.

Ren looked at him, frowning. “Did you know? Were you there before the Veil was created?”

He shook his head. “I can’t be certain. I am bound to time now, in this body, but as a spirit, time was … not the same.”

“So let me guess.” Dorian was staring at her, his eyes dark and hard. He, at least, appeared to have realized what Solas’s plan would be.

“Yes. Exactly what you’re thinking.”

“And you let him get away?” Cassandra asked incredulously.

Ren spread her hand out in front of her in a gesture of helplessness. “The Fade is hardly my area of power, and it was his. I did my best to talk him out of it, but at the end of the day, I didn’t want to end up as a statue.”

Cassandra glared at her for a moment, then relaxed with a reluctant sigh of agreement. “I suppose I cannot blame you.”

“Well, there is nothing to be done about that problem for now,” Leliana said. When Cassandra would have protested, she held up a hand. “There isn’t. I take it the danger is not immediate.” She turned to Ren for confirmation.

Ren shook her head.

Leliana continued, “What is immediate is the danger to the Inquisition. Josie has been putting forth a heroic effort in stalling Ferelden and Orlais, but she cannot do so much longer, and they are going to want answers—and are not going to be satisfied with tales of ancient gods and stories that directly contradict much of what we think we know.” As if suddenly remembering that she was actually the Divine, she turned to Ren. “He wasn’t lying?”

“He certainly didn’t think he was, and … I believed him. He created the Veil.”

Sighing, Leliana said, “That is a problem for another day. Fortunately, it is the kind of knotty theological problem that scholars across Thedas love to argue about and spend hours in dusty archives researching, so if it should get out, we will have a protracted period of scholarly debate before there is any need for me to have an official opinion. And all the more reason to continue my reforms of the Chantry.” She smiled at Cassandra. “Although I know you wish it were otherwise.”

“I do not. You lead from your heart, my friend, and what more could anyone ask of you?”

“Thank you.” The two women exchanged a glance that held much in the way of shared experiences and their deep love for the Chantry, albeit one they showed in different ways.

“So the question is the Inquisition,” Ren said. She’d known this time was coming, and she believed it was right … but she still wasn’t certain she was ready. “Shouldn’t Morris be in here?”

“He said to tell you it had always truly been yours and he had merely been keeping the seat warm for you, and that he was happy to serve in whatever way you needed him to.” Leliana looked at Ren steadily. “Be kind, Inquisitor. He did the best he could.”

“I know he did.” She meant it, too. She had given him an overwhelming task, and he had tried his hardest to step into it and make it his own.

“What are our options?” Cassandra asked. “I called the Inquisition into being because of the Templars, and the Conclave, and Corypheus … but Ferelden and Orlais are not entirely wrong. It has grown into something else entirely and it must alter its mandate or—“ It was clear she didn’t want to say it.

“Or it could become another arm of the Chantry,” Leliana suggested unexpectedly. “Inquisitor and Divine working together to create a new Thedas, one that would be a home to everyone.”

“As head of an arm of the Chantry, would the Inquisitor answer to you?” Ren asked.

Leliana looked at her unblinkingly and Ren returned the look.

Shaking her head, she said, “You know it can’t work that way. The Inquisition was created to be an independent entity, and as an atheist, I did my best to keep it so. I know it’s been creeping more Chantry-ward under Morris, but I think we’re all agreed those days are over.” 

The Iron Bull gave an almost imperceptible sigh at her admission that the mantle of the Inquisition had fallen on her shoulders again, and she reached out to take his hand, giving it a brief squeeze to indicate she shared his disappointment at the loss of their idyllic retirement before continuing.

“I can’t in all conscience surrender the Inquisition to the control of something as … divisive as the Chantry. Yes, I know you think you can make it inclusive,” she added before Leliana could protest, “but it’s always going to be predicated on its followers’ belief in the Maker. I don’t believe in the Maker. Despite what Solas says, what he appears to be, I don’t believe in the elven gods, either, or in the dwarves’ Stone, and no one in any organization I have a hand in is going to be forced to profess a belief that isn’t theirs.”

“Surely not forced,” Cassandra said.

“What else would you call it? Under the Chantry’s umbrella, we would have to at least pay lip service to the idea that everyone in the Inquisition is a believer. Wouldn’t we?” she asked Leliana.

“It’s customary.”

“Exactly. And since I can’t pay that lip service myself, I won’t ask anyone who works with or for me to do the same.”

“So … it appears there is no other choice,” Cassandra said softly. There was sorrow in her grey eyes, and Ren was sorry to see it and doubly sorry to be the cause of it.

“I’m sorry. I wish I saw another way. But it’s already been tainted. Qunari spies, elven spies … no doubt Tevinter and Orlesian and Ferelden and dwarven spies, for that matter, all trying to find a way to use the Inquisition for their own ends. The Qunari nearly succeeded in using us to start a war all across Thedas. They would have, if it hadn’t been for Solas. How long until someone tries to start something and no one’s there to stop them in time? No,” Ren said with finality. “As you say, Cassandra, the Inquisition was created to deal with aftermath of the Conclave, which it did; to defeat Corypheus, which it did; to take down the Red Templars and put the Order back on a new path, which it did. I think its usefulness is over.” She glanced sidelong at Ashkaari, and then met Leliana’s blue eyes. Both of them understood what she wasn’t saying, or they appeared to. Cassandra was too stricken by the end of what they had put in place, Dorian too tired to pay attention, leaning against the wall and appearing half asleep, and Cole was studying the War Table and appeared to be lost in thought.

Because the Inquisition couldn’t end, not really, as long as Solas’s threat lay out there waiting to destroy the world. But Solas knew everything there was to know about the Inquisition as it was and the way it ran. If they were going to have a chance against him, they had to approach him in a way he wouldn’t expect.

“You make a compelling case, Inquisitor,” Leliana said softly when Ren was done speaking. She smiled suddenly. “Or are you merely hoping to leave the title behind once and for all?”

Ren chuckled. “The thought had crossed my mind.” More seriously, she added, “Will you go to the Exalted Council and tell them I will address them first thing in the morning and we will resolve their concerns once and for all?”

Cassandra frowned. “They are in no mood to be put off further. Should you not speak with them now?”

“No. For one thing, I’m utterly exhausted, and I want to be at my best when I speak to them. For another … Cullen and Josephine deserve to hear this from me personally, not in the middle of the council. As does Morris.” Fairbanks could take care of himself, Ren felt. If she ran into him, she would speak to him, but she wasn’t going to make a special effort to seek him out. “If either Teagan or Cyril kick about it, please feel free to play the ‘I just had my arm cut off two days ago’ card. Show them the arm with the Anchor if you like,” she added bitterly.

“Of course, Inquisitor,” Leliana agreed. She started to leave the room, then stopped and looked back. “I thought it was impressive when you stepped down and willingly agreed to relinquish the power of the Inquisition to another. Taking it back when it is clear it is the last thing you wish to do, and then making this very hard decision … I admire you, Morvoren, and I am pleased to call you my colleague—and my friend.”

She left quickly then, leaving Ren touched by her words. No one but the Iron Bull had ever called her Morvoren—not in her memory, at least, although her mother must have used the name when she was very small—and it felt fitting to reclaim it now as she prepared for her last formal act on the behalf of the Inquisition.


	26. To Reassure Himself

Once Leliana had left the makeshift War Room, the Iron Bull put a hand on his _kadan_ ’s shoulder. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“To bed.”

For once she didn’t argue with him. “Oh, good. I’m not sure I could stand up much longer.” She looked over at the others. “You guys, too. Get some good sleep. I have the feeling we’ll all need to be at our best tomorrow.”

Dorian hugged her tightly and looked into her eyes before deciding that he wasn’t certain what he wanted to say. Wordlessly, exhausted, he turned to go. Cole followed him, his head ducked so the Iron Bull couldn’t see his face under his broad hat.

Cassandra remained, holding herself up by one hand braced on the War Table, staring down at the pieces.

“Are you all right?” Morvoren asked her.

“I … do not know. I began the Inquisition because I believed—I had faith. And now …”

“Now it’s being ended by someone with no faith?”

Cassandra’s head snapped up and she stared at Morvoren. “No, not at all. I only wonder if what I had hoped for it was … too large. Impossibly large. I wished to change the world.”

“Instead you saved it.”

“Yes. An easier task, I think—at least, it has more easily defined features, and is more readily agreed upon.”

The Iron Bull stayed silent. He had opinions, naturally, about the Inquisition and where it had gone and what it had done and the changes it had made, but Cassandra was talking more to herself than anyone else, and he wanted his _kadan_ to himself tonight, to reassure himself that it was truly over and she was safe again … for now.

Cassandra sighed. “I’ll be all right. In a little while.”

“You’ll get some sleep, too, won’t you?”

“Yes. Eventually.”

Morvoren was reluctant to leave her, but the Iron Bull could see Cassandra needed the privacy to come to terms with everything that had happened. He put a hand gently on the small of Morvoren’s back. “Come on.”

“All right.” She glanced back at Cassandra over her shoulder, but the Seeker had forgotten about them. Both hands were braced on the War Table now as she leaned over it.

As the door closed behind them, the Iron Bull assured his _kadan_ , “She’ll be fine. She’s just got to work through it on her own.”

“I know. I just hate to leave her like that. I feel as though it’s my fault all this has happened.”

He looked around pointedly at the doors they were passing as they walked down the hall, and raised his eyebrows to suggest that they could discuss that once they were in the comparative privacy of their room rather than here in the middle of the Winter Palace.

Morvoren was stumbling sleepily by the time they reached their room, and she collapsed on the bed immediately.

“Not gonna take off your boots?” he asked her. As he had imagined, it wasn’t the time to talk her down from her belief that she had somehow failed Cassandra by achieving everything the Inquisition had set out to achieve; she was too tired for that. She appeared too tired for anything, which he was going to find difficult. They hadn’t been together since before her arm had been removed, which had only been a few days, but given the intensity of those days, seemed like forever.

She held up one foot, encased in a tall, laced-up boot. “Take them off for me?”

“Oh.” He wanted to. He wanted to take off more than that. But he wasn’t sure he could trust himself to touch her without caressing her. He wanted, needed, so badly to explore every inch of her, to reassure himself that she was alive and aware and with him and he hadn’t lost her. But he felt selfish asking, after all that she had been through. “ _Kadan_ , I—“

“What is it?” Her eyes came open and she looked at him. “Oh, Ashkaari, I’m not sure if I—“

“You wouldn’t have to,” he assured her. “Just … Let me touch you, _kadan_.”

She studied his face. “These have been hard days for you.”

He nodded. “Not like for you.”

“I get that. And you need this.”

He nodded again.

Morvoren smiled. “Fall asleep while a very good-looking man uses his exceptionally skilled hands to give me pleasure? Well, if I must …” She shifted on the bed, the stump moving awkwardly with her, and she glanced at it, anxiety overtaking her smile. “I—“

“I won’t touch it.” Not tonight. But soon, when she was more healed, he would show her that he wasn’t sickened by it, that it made as little difference to him as his lost eye made to her.

She nodded, relaxing again. The Iron Bull reached for a pillow, tucking it beneath her head, before he began the long process of unlacing and removing her boots. He stripped off her stockings and kissed the curl of her toes, and her insteps, and the insides of her ankles.

Joining her on the bed, he propped his head up on one hand while he unbuttoned her jacket and her shirt with the other. Both of them sighed with pleasure when his hand made contact with her bare skin. He stroked her stomach gently, and bent to kiss it, tracing a path with his tongue up to where her breastband cut off his access to her skin.

He lifted her just enough to slip the vest and shirt and breastband off of her, dropping them over the side of the bed as she lay back again, shifting up a little so that her head was fully on the pillow. The stump was still wrapped in its neat bandage, having been fairly well protected by her folded-up sleeve. True to his promise, he ignored it, passing his hand gently over her nipples while he kissed the line of her jaw and then tipped her head up so he could lick and nibble at the sensitive skin just underneath and down her neck. 

Moving his mouth along the line of her collarbone, he cupped her breast, his thumb circling the nipple until it was fully hard. He bent to suckle it, pulling it into his mouth and running his tongue over it again and again. 

“Ashkaari,” she gasped, a faint breath in the stillness of the room. Her hand came up and cupped the back of his head, her fingers caressing his skin even as she held him there. 

“You taste so good,” he murmured against her skin. He moved to the other nipple, his hands exploring the muscular planes of her stomach and around her sides. 

He brought his mouth lower, nipping across the edge of her ribcage, and then lower still, his tongue on her belly.

Beneath him, she lifted her hips as best she could with him practically on top of her, and the Iron Bull rolled off her and unfastened the buttons on her pants. His fingers found the opening and the top edge of her silky underthings and the heat and warmth that lay beneath. He growled at the wetness already there, and Morvoren moaned, pressing herself against his fingers. 

He tugged at her pants, and she lifted her body so that he could pull them off, the scrap of smallclothes along with them. He nudged one leg aside and lifted the other to drape it over his shoulders. Between sleepiness and arousal, her muscles were languid and loose, both legs following his movements without resistance.

She whispered his name again as his tongue touched her delicate tissues, the familiar taste and scent of her dizzying. It was an awkward position, given that this bed had not been designed for a Qunari in the first place and now he was lying halfway down it, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was his _kadan_ , naked to his touch. Weary as she was, he didn’t want to push her too quickly, and he was in no hurry anyway, exactly where he wanted to be for the first time in entirely too long, so he took his time, letting her pleasure build slowly.

Her sighs and whispers grew fainter and more drawn-out, and the Iron Bull envisioned the waves of her pleasure carrying her ever closer to sleep. At last she flowed slowly over her peak, one long, final sigh drawn from her as she sank fully into slumber. The Iron Bull removed himself from the bed to a nearby chair. With the taste of her still on his tongue, and the moonlight from the window highlighting her body in silver, it took very little to bring himself release. 

After cleaning up, he sat there for a long time watching her sleep, glad to have made it through those endless eluvians and back in one piece.

That they had been fighting his own people was something he probably should feel more affected by, the Iron Bull reflected. But he had turned his back on that life of his own volition, knowing what he was doing—what he gave up, and what he got in return. On the whole, he didn’t miss the Qun, and he was coming to an understanding that many of the beliefs he had lived under came from fear, fear of the unknown, fear of the different, fear of the loss of control. His study of other religions led him to believe that many of their tenets, as well, came from fear. Which made them feel closer to each other, at the same time as they held themselves so far apart. 

The Viddasala had taken that fear too far. He wondered if the Salasari, the ruling triumvirate, had agreed to this plan, or if she had acted on her own. She’d had access to so many troops, he had to think she had some backing—and if the plan had worked, the Qunari would have been in good shape to take over Thedas with greater ease than had ever been anticipated. Now they woud have to go back to their plans for a protracted war. Uneasily, he wondered if he and Morvoren had saved the South from invasion only to have the region suffer far more under a bloody and inexorable march from the north.

And that was without considering Solas and whatever plans that crazy asshole had for all of them. The Iron Bull had understood completely that his _kadan_ didn’t intend to give up on stopping the elf, ancient god though he might be, despite her intention to shut down the Inquisition. Solas had been within the Inquisition from the start, he had seen it grow, he had known its capabilities—and just how to exploit those for his own ends. He would be counting on the humans not being able to let go of the institution they loved so much.

But Morvoren could. Unique among humans, she had the decisiveness and strength of character to put something so large and powerful aside. She had already done so once. Would Solas predict that she would do it again? It was something to think about.

Not tonight, though. A yawn caught him unawares, and he wondered when the last time was he had gotten a decent amount of sleep. Before the amputation? Before they came here? Before the Anchor had begun awakening Morvoren in the middle of the night with its green fire? He wasn’t sure.

Falling heavily on the bed next to his _kadan_ , who sighed and smiled in her sleep at the motion, he surrendered himself to sleep, leaving the troubles of tomorrow to be dealt with when they awakened.


	27. Necessary

Ren was up early the next morning, leaving Ashkaari still snoring in bed. She chose a shirt with no buttons that she could simply pull on over her head and left her uniform jacket undone—and didn’t care in the least that she was walking around the Winter Palace in such a disheveled state. Let them talk. Like she cared. All she wanted was to go home, and now it looked like she wouldn’t even get to do that. What the Orlesians said about her fashion sense was the least of her worries.

Cullen was the easiest to find, in the kennels with the mabari. Seanna Dennet leaned against the wall next to him, the two of them talking quietly together with the appearance of ease. Ren hated to disturb the moment—but when Seanna saw her, the conversation stopped, and the younger woman turned away to tend the horses.

Ren wished she had stayed, but she needed to speak with Cullen alone anyway, so there wouldn’t have been a lot of point in protesting. 

“You came to tell me about the Inquisition,” he said as soon as they were alone.

“I’m sorry. I meant to tell you myself, I wanted to, but it was so late last night—“

He held up a hand to stop her. “It’s fine. Cassandra came to me; she needed someone to talk to. She agrees, at least; in her head she does. Her heart—well, she has a great deal invested, as you know.”

“I do. And I’m sorry about it. But … there’s no way to keep what we had, Cullen.”

“I know that.” He sighed, leaning his head against the wall. “And I am forced to admit that I’m tired. I want … to walk my dog and visit my family and … not feel the weight of the world on my shoulders. It’s been there on and off since Kinloch Hold, and I’m not as young and energetic as I once was.”

“None of us are,” Ren agreed. “But if anyone’s deserved a peaceful retirement, it’s you.”

Cullen looked down at her, his face very serious. “Do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Whatever … whatever else there is, please, don’t tell me. I will be with you at a moment’s notice if my sword or my pen or anything else I can give is truly needed, but …”

“I understand,” she assured him. “I really do. I would not call on you again unless the need was dire. But in return, do something for me.”

“What?”

“Retire completely. Put away your fear. Fall in love. Be happy. Have some faith in the lifetime of peace ahead of you.”

He smiled. “More easily said than done, Inquisitor.”

“Well, it’s an order, so you’ll have to learn how to do it.”

“I will do my best.”

Ren chuckled. “Don’t look at me like that, like you think I don’t know this is the hardest thing I could have asked of you. If it helps any, I don’t think you’d have to look very far to find a willing teacher.” She didn’t miss the way his eyes immediately flew to Seanna, where she bent over cleaning a horse’s hoof, or the blush that lit his cheeks when he caught Ren looking at him. 

She left him there to contemplate his orders and went to find Morris and Josephine, both of whom were breakfasting in the grand dining room. Morris met her first, practically in the doorway.

“I owe you an apology,” he said without preamble.

Ren shook her head. “You owe me nothing. I gave you a hard task. You did it for as long as you could. It’s not your fault it was harder than I had anticipated it being, or that … I seem to be destined for this role.”

“I should have done more.”

“I don’t know what more you could have done.” She was being fairly generous, Ren felt. He could have fought harder; he could have gone through the eluvians himself. But she had been the one with the Anchor, and at the end of the day, that had marked her as the Inquisitor regardless of anyone’s intentions.

“I’d like …” He hesitated. “If I may, I’d like to go back to being Quartermaster. There is a mess there that needs straightening.”

Ren met his eyes squarely, hoping he would see there what she didn’t want to say openly in the midst of a room full of nosy nobles.

“Oh.” Disappointment was rich in his voice. “When?”

“Later today.”

“Well. I … I suppose I understand. Nothing else to be done. I can’t help but feel responsible—“

“You aren’t. The world is changing, and so are its needs,” Ren assured him. Across the room, she saw Josephine excuse herself and get up, leaving Fergus Cousland and a few other people Ren didn’t recognize behind at the table. With a glance at Ren, Josephine ducked through a side door. “Excuse me, Morris. Will you—are you going to be all right?”

“Yes. Fine. Just … these past few weeks have not been easy.”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes. She knew he had been having a rough time of it, but he hadn’t lost his arm, had he? No.

But there was no point in kicking the man when he was down, so she left him and followed Josephine.

Her Ambassador waited only until the door to the small antechamber had closed behind Ren. “I know. Leliana told me.”

“How are you?”

Josephine smiled. “Harried, Inquisitor. More than ready to put aside one set of tasks and take up another.” She looked in the direction of the door, with Fergus Cousland on the other side of it, her eyes soft.

“Good. Then this should go smoothly?”

“Certainly it will be unexpected. The tricky part will be making certain the dismantling of the Inquisition proceeds under our control and at our pace, rather than being dictated by others.”

“Will that be difficult?”

“I think only if they doubt our intentions. If they are certain of the result … well, they will want to take as much as they can. Fergus can assist us with managing the demands of Ferelden, and Leliana has Celene’s ear, to help mitigate those of Orlais.”

“It’s the people that concern me. We employ a great number. I want to see them taken care of, and that will take time, and care.”

“It will. Later today, we will meet in the War Room and draw up a plan.”

“Good.” Ren nodded. “Morris can help with that. He’s good at organization and things of that nature.”

“Will he?”

“I think he wants to be as useful as he can. What about Fairbanks?”

Josephine shrugged delicately. “Perhaps the Iron Bull could step in and see about the dismantling of our spy ring?”

He would want to, Ren suspected, in order to keep active those who might be most useful to them in the pursuit of Solas and the discovery of his plans, and to root out those who were working against the Inquisition on behalf of other powers. But it wouldn’t do to say as much—this was still the Winter Palace, and even the walls often had ears. “I think I can talk him into it. So, are we ready?”

“Not quite.” Josephine stepped forward, hands raised, her gaze pointedly fixed on Ren's sartorial disarray. “May I?”

Ren flushed. She hated that she couldn’t do these things herself; it made her feel so damned helpless. “Yes, please.”

“I know this is hard, and I am sorry for its necessity,” Josephine murmured as she straightened and tucked in Ren’s shirt and deftly buttoned her jacket. She stepped back to survey her results. “Now we are ready, I think.”

“Good. Let’s get started.”

Together they went into the Exalted Council, waiting while the ceremonies were completed and the Divine came in to take her seat. Ren looked around her, at Josephine next to her, at Varric in the Viscount’s chair, at Cullen and Cassandra in the gallery, at Vivienne in the Grand Enchanter’s seat, at Dorian in the hastily placed Tevinter chair, at Morris, off to the side in a chair he had pulled there. Sera and Cole and Blackwall and the Iron Bull weren’t here, none of them having the standing to be allowed in the meeting, and of course, Solas’s whereabouts were completely unknown. 

Almost before Leliana was completely seated, Teagan began hectoring Josephine, and through her, Ren, about the dangers they had all faced from the Qunari and the concealment of the eluvians. Cyril offered the occasional comment in agreement, although it was clear he disliked being in agreement with Ferelden even now.

Josephine broke into the harangue in places in an attempt to calm Teagan, but he seemed to feed on her pleas, growing louder and more angry.

“May I remind you that without our organization you would not be alive to complain?” Josephine said at last, her voice icy.

“Without your organization, I would never have been in danger in the first place!” Teagan exclaimed.

Ren stood up at that, standing there until Teagan’s eyes were on her. “No, you wouldn’t have been. Because you fled Redcliffe at the first sign of trouble and left your people to the mercies of the warring Templars and mages, the bandits who followed the chaos, and the Tevinters who swooped in and took Redcliffe Castle as a toehold into Ferelden in your absence. You still have holdings because of me.”

He glared at her, clearly not wanting to be reminded. At last he sighed, as though her assistance had been a terrible burden to him. “No one has forgotten what you have sacrificed, Inquisitor.” His eyes rested on her missing arm with carefully schooled pity. “But Corypheus is two years dead, after all. If the Inquisition is to continue, it must do so as a legitimate organization, not a glorified mercenary band.”

In front of Ren was a finely bound folio with the Inquisition symbol emblazoned on its leather cover. She lifted it now so everyone could see. “You all know what this is: a writ from Divine Justinia authorizing the formation of the Inquisition.” She turned slowly so everyone could see it, so everyone could see her face and know that she meant every word of what she was about to say. “The Inquisition, all of us, pledged to close the Breach. To find those responsible and deal with them. To restore order. With or without anyone’s approval, or assistance.” Ren looked at Teagan, daring him to respond, but he remained silent. Then she glanced at Cassandra, who gave her a small smile and a nod. Ren was relieved to see it, and to know that the Seeker would be all right, whatever the future held. Shaking the folio a little as she turned back to Teagan, Ren said, “It wasn’t a formally authorized treaty that saved Ferelden’s people.” She shifted her gaze to look at Cyril. “It wasn’t careful diplomacy that ended your civil war. It was never about the organization. It was about people—all of us, together, doing what was necessary. But what was necessary then is less so now.” She took a deep breath. Could she do this? She had to. It was time.

“Effective immediately, the Inquisition is disbanded.”


	28. Work

There was a brief silence, so still you could have heard a pin drop, after Ren’s announcement, and then conversation swelled throughout the room. In the midst of it, Ren met Teagan’s eyes, reading there the ugly triumph, his certainty that it was Ferelden’s opposition that had managed this feat. She wished she could wipe the smug smile right off his face—but of course, she was a Fereldan now, and intended to stay that way, and she had antagonized him enough already. She grit her teeth and refused to allow him to see how much he angered her.

“Inquisitor. Inquisitor!”

Finally she registered Josephine’s voice. “Yes. I’m sorry, what?”

“The meeting is adjourned.”

“Is it?” Ren looked around at everyone talking animatedly, many of them gesturing at her and whispering.

“Yes. At the very least, we should depart, and allow those who require it to enjoy what they consider their victory.”

“I wish we didn’t have to.”

Josephine smiled briefly. “Naturally. But you know the truth, none better. Is it so bad to allow them to think that they have won, if only for the moment?”

Thinking about whatever fate Solas had in store for everyone in this room, Ren shook her head. “You make a good point.”

She allowed Josephine to lead her from the room into an antechamber, where Cullen and Leliana were waiting. 

“Inquisitor.” To Ren’s great surprise, Cullen stepped toward her and enfolded her in his arms, giving her a long hug. “Thank you.”

“Thank _you_ ,” she corrected. “If it hadn’t been for your armies, and Leliana’s spies, and Josephine’s diplomacy, there would have been no Inquisition for me to lead.”

“I believe Cullen is thanking you for having the strength to disband the Inquisition, on top of the courage to lead it. I don’t think any of us would have been willing to do it, especially not so soon.”

“Soon?” Ren asked, stepping back from Cullen. “Hasn’t it been a hundred years?”

“It seems like it,” Cullen agreed with a long sigh. “If the rest of you do not mind, I am going to take my leave. I’ll collect as many of our people as I can and lead them back to Skyhold, and there will begin the task of dismantling the Inquisition.”

“I will be there shortly,” Josephine told him.

He shook his head. “You needn’t hurry. I intend to take my time and be certain everyone is taken care of. The Inquisition may have come together hastily, but I do not intend for it to be torn apart willy-nilly.”

Leliana looked grave. “I am concerned that Teagan will expect just that.”

“Teagan got just what he wanted. He can afford to bend a little on the timeline,” Ren said.

Josephine nodded. “I believe I can make him see things that way. All right, Cullen, I will remain here and work things from that end if you are willing to take on the needed tasks at Skyhold.”

“I think Morris might be willing to go with you, too. He was saying to me earlier that he would like to return to his quartermaster duties. I’ll find him for you and ask him if he can be ready to leave this morning.”

“Thank you. I—wish you great happiness with your Iron Bull, Inquisitor.”

“And I wish you great happiness, as well. Learn how to reach for it, Cullen.”

“I will do my best.” He smiled suddenly, taking years off his face. “I will be stopping by the stable before I leave.”

“The best news I’ve heard all morning.”

Cullen bowed to her. He looked over her head at Leliana and Josephine.

“We will see you soon,” Leliana assured him.

“Your Perfection.”

“Oh, go along with you,” she scolded him.

Once Cullen was gone, Ren looked at the other two. “I’m going to go find Morris. I’ll catch up with you both later.”

Josephine agreed, making plans for them to meet later with some of the nobles. As she spoke, Ren and Leliana exchanged a glance, each acknowledging the unfinished business that lay ahead of them. Ren wished it wasn’t so—she envied Cullen deeply for being able to simply put it all aside and go. But then, he had fought in the Blight, and in Kirkwall. If anyone had earned a retirement, it was Cullen. She still had work ahead of her to do.

Leaving the antechamber, she went in search of Morris, finding him with an agitated Fairbanks. 

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Fairbanks demanded immediately.

She met his furious gaze coolly. “I couldn’t find you, and there wasn’t time to go searching.”

He flushed at that, dropping his gaze. “How soon?”

“Immediately.”

“No, I mean, how soon do we begin to rebuild?”

Ren frowned at him. “We don’t. The Inquisition is disbanded. Completely. Permanently.” She looked at Morris. “Cullen is leaving this morning to head back to Skyhold and begin the work there. I thought you might be willing to go along and give him a hand.”

“Absolutely. Thank you, Inquisitor. I mean … I’ll make certain everyone is taken care of.”

“Thank you. That’s the most important part.”

“We need to retain our lines of communication,” Fairbanks insisted. “We cannot give all that up, not when we spent so much time building it!”

Ren refrained from pointing out that he had not been part of building any part of the Inquisition, and she bit her tongue against the impulse to remind him that the eluvian and the gaatlok and the Qunari and elven   
spies in the Inquisition had all happened on his watch. Perhaps that had all been inevitable, and it wouldn’t have mattered who was in charge—and, after all, she was the one who had left. Maybe if she had stayed on as Inquisitor, none of this would have happened. Of course, she had only done what seemed right at the time, and Josephine and Cullen and Leliana had agreed with her decision, so she wasn’t going to waste too much time with might-have-beens, not when there was still work to be done.

“You are relieved, Fairbanks,” she said. “You can return to Skyhold and collect your belongings, and from there … the world is your oyster, as far as I’m concerned.” She knew he had been generously compensated for his work with the Inquisition.

He started to argue, and apparently thought better of it. “Yes, Inquisitor.”

“Will you come with me, then?” Morris asked him.

Fairbanks hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, perhaps I will.”

Ren watched the two of them walk away, glad to be closing the Inquisition if only so problems of staffing were no longer hers to contend with. The Iron Bull and Krem handled everything where the Chargers were concerned, and she suspected that whatever they put together to go against Solas would not require a large staff.

A familiar tall, slender figure was coming toward her, and she held her ground, even managing a small smile as her father approached. “Hello, Father.”

“I assume you are pleased with the effect you made?”

Ren shrugged. “I wasn’t looking for an effect.”

He sighed. “I have taught you nothing, I see.”

She didn’t bother pointing out that he had never tried to teach her anything. Instead she said, “What will you do now, Father?”

“Well.” He appeared to consider that for a moment. With Cadoc no longer in favor, and Ren a disgrace, he seemed likely to have to fall back on Demelza as his heir. It was a bit of a surprise that Demelza wasn’t here, in fact.

“Are you remaining in Orlais?” she asked him.

“Perhaps, yes. This has been a profitable journey, if disappointing in other respects, and I shall continue it in Val Royeaux. And you? What will you do now that you are no longer employed in any respectable manner?”

Ren smiled. “I haven’t been employed in a respectable manner in years. I’m going back to Ferelden to be a mercenary, and I hope to entirely avoid ever being respectable again.”

He gave an exaggerated shudder. “Of course you will.”

“Want to come visit?”

Corentin Trevelyan narrowed his eyes, staring at her down the length of his nose. “You must be joking.”

“Naturally.”

They looked at one another, Ren thinking that this was quite likely the last time she would ever see her father. Surely that should bother her more than it did, she told herself. But she had left him before, expecting never to see him again. This time was no different, really. “Good-bye, Father.”

“Morvoren.” He nodded, then turned on his heel and was gone almost before it dawned on her that he had used her preferred name for what was probably the first time in her life. She stood staring after him, wondering what he had meant by that, until a gentle tap on the arm drew her back from her thoughts. 

She turned to see Blackwall standing there, looking at her in concern. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. I just spoke with my father.”

“Always difficult, family,” he agreed. He cleared his throat. “I, uh, just wanted to say good-bye. I’m going back to Weisshaupt. I think—I think it likely I won’t be leaving again.”

“Oh. Oh, that would make sense, I suppose. Unless there’s a Blight.” Just what Thedas needed, really, on top of whatever Solas had in mind.

Blackwall forced a smile. “Let’s hope not.”

“Indeed. Well … travel safely.”

“Thank you. And … good luck to you.”

“Thank you.”

It seemed as though there should be more to say—but there really wasn’t, so Blackwall gave her a bow, a more meaningful bow than Ren thought she perhaps deserved, and then he was gone, striding off toward the stables with his bag over his shoulder.

There was a sadness in this, all these final good-byes … but Ren had said so many of them already before that it was hard to imagine that there wouldn’t be another round at some point, more chances to see all these people. What would happen when Solas tried to bring his plan to fruition? Would Cullen be called out of retirement and Blackwall be brought back from Weisshaupt? She hoped not, for both their sakes—but it was hard to predict what Solas might have up his sleeve.

It was getting on toward time to meet Josephine. Ren would have far preferred not to—it had already been a long day with no sign of anything getting shorter, and she could really have done with either a chance to sit down with a cold drink or a long nap—but duty called. At least there was no eluvian involved in this, just a conversation with some nobility. 

In some ways, Ren would vastly have preferred the eluvian.

“Inquisitor!” Josephine called as Ren approached the outdoor café where they were meeting. “Come and sit. I have ordered you an ale.”

“You read my mind,” Ren said in relief as she sank into the chair Josephine indicated. “Your Grace,” she said to Fergus Cousland.

“Please. Not yet,” he said, looking pained. “The others will be here soon enough.”

Ren smiled, acknowledging his attempt to put parity between them, even though he was technically her liege lord, since her land on the Storm Coast was within his teyrnir. She raised her mug to him. “To the two of you. You’re one Fereldan who I hope does get exactly what he wants from this Exalted Council.” She regretted the words as soon as she’d spoken them, hearing how completely impolitic they sounded, but to her great relief Fergus laughed.

“I only hope so,” he agreed. “Josephine here has been protesting that there is ‘so much yet to be done’.” He mocked her accent gently, and she swatted his arm.

“I do not sound like that.”

“If you say so.” They smiled into each other’s eyes, and Ren smiled, too, happy for them.

Josephine tore her gaze away from Fergus’s at last. “There is much to do, although I appreciate Cullen’s generosity in taking so much on himself.”

“I don’t know if that’s generosity as much as it is fear,” Ren said bluntly. “He’s delaying his own retirement as long as he can think of productive work to be done at Skyhold.”

“Oh, you’re probably right.” Josephine looked distressed. “I cannot allow him to bury himself in work merely for my own—“

Ren shook her head, cutting Josephine off. “I think you can. He needs to take the time, needs to assure himself that all the soldiers and the various workers are taken care of, that no one goes without because we have disassembled. And it’s possible there’s someone at Skyhold who might be able to give him some ideas about retirement.” She told them about Seanna Dennett, and Josephine’s eyes twinkled.

“I wondered if there was someone. He has seemed much more … relaxed, recently—if Cullen can ever be said to be relaxed.”

Ren chuckled. “Then hopefully Seanna can work on him as he satisfies himself by seeing to all the details. The Iron Bull and I will go to Skyhold and help get things dismantled as well; Cullen won’t be alone.”

“Good.”

“Very good,” Fergus echoed, reaching to take Josephine’s hand in his.

At that moment Cyril de Montfort made his appearance, with a small entourage of fellow Orlesian nobles. “Inquisitor. Enchanting to see you again.”

“Yes. Nice to see you, too.”

Seats were arranged for everyone, and drinks and food ordered. Ren was on her best behavior, trying to keep to a minimum her glances at Josephine to make sure she wasn’t embarrassing herself—or her Ambassador.

At last, after everything had been served and his friends were amusing themselves criticizing everything from the way the waiter walked to the provenance of the spices, Cyril leaned across the table toward Ren. “You took many people by surprise this morning, Inquisitor. Not least of whom, my esteemed colleague the representative from Ferelden.”

“Not you, though?” Ren asked.

“Oh, no. I saw that there was no other way to handle the situation. Now all that remains is to determine how best to dismantle your little empire, no?” He smiled, and Ren smiled back, ignoring the dig at her “little empire”.

“I imagine that will take some time,” she said.

“Oh? Perhaps we can be of assistance.”

Ren shook her head regretfully. “As much as I might appreciate the help, I think the Inquisition has come to mean so much to everyone who has worked within it that we must manage this on our own.”

“Ah.” Cyril was disappointed, that much was plain, but wasn’t certain how to attack the problem the way Ren had phrased it. She was pleased with herself, and she could tell Josephine was, as well. “If you are certain …”

“Naturally we hope to accomplish the task as efficiently as possible,” Josephine said, “but … anything one must do, one must do as well as one can, yes?”

Cyril frowned, trying to follow her sentence. “Of course,” he said finally. He looked at Fergus. “Forgive me, my lord, but your fellow Fereldan, will he be content to allow the Inquisition to shut itself down in such an … independent manner?”

Fergus shrugged. “I imagine he will be content to take what he has received, given that there was no guarantee the Inquisition would choose to disband as a result of this Council.”

“Do you not think so?” Cyril’s delicate lift of the eyebrows suggested he didn’t quite agree, but wasn’t going to stoop to argument. “I see.”

“In the meanwhile, if there are structures in Orlais or Ferelden under Inquisition control, we will certainly consider carefully what use they might be put to,” Ren said. “We would of course value your thoughts on the matter.”

“Of course.” Cyril blinked, his face difficult to read as always, but Ren had a feeling there would be plenty of “thoughts” forthcoming. Well, there would have been anyway. At least this meant she had asked for them outright rather than having them thrust upon her. Hopefully that would allow for more goodwill later.

Cyril and his friends left the table shortly afterward, and Ren leaned back in her chair with a sigh.

“You did very well,” Josephine told her. “It’s a shame you are no longer Inquisitor.” 

“Yes. A terrible shame.” Ren groaned. “Except that I still have all the Inquisitor’s work to do.”

“A good point. Will you be leaving for Skyhold soon?”

“Another day or two. We’ll want to get the Chargers started back to Ferelden and say good-bye to a few more people. You?”

“Yes—“ Josephine began, but Fergus interjected before she could finish.

“We’ll be taking a few days off,” he said firmly, staring down his fiance’s objections.

“Excellent idea,” Ren agreed, laughing. “I think you should enjoy yourselves. I’ll see you at Skyhold, and certainly whenever I finally make it back home to the Storm Coast.”

“I hope you and the Iron Bull will come to Highever.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” Ren told Fergus.

“Oh, I think I do. It will probably be the most entertaining state visit I’ve ever hosted.”

Josephine laughed. “The most unusual, certainly,” she agreed.

“Then it’s settled.”

“Definitely.” Ren got to her feet. “Enjoy your time together,” she told them, aware that Fergus, certainly, and Josephine, too, knew all too well how short that kind of time could be, in the end.

As she left them, she considered that thought. If time together was short, what value was there in denying the person you loved something they wanted very badly that cost you nothing? Marriage meant very little to her … but it appeared to have come to mean something to her Ashkaari, who had given her so much. Didn’t she owe it to him to give him something back when she could? 

Stuffing her hand in her pocket, she strolled the gardens of Halamshiral, considering the topic and how to bring it about.


	29. Kadan

The Iron Bull had been looking forward to this moment for months. Since the first raven had arrived telling them about the Exalted Council, in fact. The moment when it was all over, and they could sit in a tavern with their friends and drink and celebrate having climbed yet another mountain.

That it wasn’t actually all over didn’t bother him as much as it might have. After everything he and Morvoren had been through together, he hardly expected ever to be completely done with the Inquisition and its problems. He hated that it was a former companion of theirs causing the next complication—Solas had never been his favorite person, but he wasn’t all bad, either. Certainly the Iron Bull had never contemplated killing him. And this shadowy trouble with the Veil lurking somewhere ahead of them, the exact nature of the threat and the timing of it unknown, bothered him, too. It was much easier to fight an enemy that was right out in front of you.

And for that matter, what were the Qunari going to do? This whole debacle had made a sizeable dent in their fighting force, in addition to whatever ongoing losses they were sustaining in Seheron. He’d been out of the loop for a while, but unless they were getting troops from some other world—and the Iron Bull had learned never to discount any possibility, however ridiculous it might sound at first—the available number of troops had to be diminishing. He supposed he should feel bad about that, but it had been a long time since the Kossith had felt like “his” people. Not since he had left Seheron, if he told himself the truth.

But all of that was a concern for another day. Another lesson he had learned over the years was to take his pleasures where they came, great heaping helpings of them, because you never knew what tomorrow would bring. Loving Morvoren had only brought that lesson home more fully. He had come so close to losing her to that fucking Anchor. He would see her, white-faced and in pain, lying on that makeshift operating table, in his nightmares for years to come.

“Can’t have that,” said a voice at his elbow. “Broody-brow’s not a good look on you.”

He grinned at Sera. “How would you know?”

She shrugged. “Have it your way. Be all dark and storm-cloudy over here in your corner. The rest of us are partying.”

“Are you?” He looked around at the tavern, which was slowly beginning to fill. A discreet handful of gold slipped to the bartender meant that only chosen people were getting in tonight—only trusted Inquisition people. “I’m surprised you’re still here.”

“You mean ‘cause all the other elves are slipping away into the night? The royal prince of prissiness isn’t my kind of elf—and right back again, neither.”

It was true—Solas and Sera had never spoken the same language, figuratively or literally. “So the Friends of Red Jenny go on?”

She chuckled. “Nobles still need a boot up the arse and an arrow in the face?” The question didn’t need an answer from him, and she didn’t wait for one. “Damn right they do.”

“Good. Can we count on you if we need you?”

Sera hopped down off the table. “Thought we were closed for business.” He looked at her, and she looked back at him, and grinned. “Yeah, you know where to find me.”

She was off into the growing crowd, and the Iron Bull stood up, figuring she was right—it was hardly the time for worrying about the future.

Morvoren had come in, and was wading through the Chargers in his direction. She looked good. Better than she had looked in a long time. There was a confidence in her face and a sparkle in her blue eyes that made the Iron Bull’s heart lift within him. He looked forward to hearing what had put it there. Was it disbanding the Inquisition? That seemed unlikely to him, but it was possible.

As he reached her, he circled her waist with one arm and drew her against him for a long kiss, which he was relieved to feel her return with zest.

The Chargers clapped and whistled. Skinner’s whistle was particularly piercing, which made the Iron Bull happy. It had taken the elf a long time to accept his _kadan_ and her place in his life, and with the Chargers. The others shifted around to make room for them. Rocky and Stitches and Dalish all lifted their mugs. Krem was sitting with his wife Flissa perched on his lap, the two of them almost sickeningly happy. 

The Iron Bull sank onto the bench next to Krem, all three of them holding their breath until they were sure it was going to hold his weight.

Krem leaned over. “We going home, Chief?”

“You are, Krem. The Inquisitor and I have some work to do at Skyhold.”

Flissa frowned. “Do you need my help?” She had been Morvoren’s assistant during the war against Corypheus. 

Morvoren leaned against the Iron Bull’s shoulder. She shook her head at Flissa. “I don’t think so. It’s mostly administrative—helping Cullen make sure everyone gets a chance at a fresh start.” She glanced at the Iron Bull. “We might send a few people the Chargers’ way, don’t you think?”

A list of names was already in his mind. He nodded. “Maybe a few.” He was deliberately noncommittal; it didn’t pay to be too open about these things.

But Morvoren understood him, as she always did, a smile lighting her eyes. “We’ll have to give it some thought.”

“Hey, Krem, don’t talk shop! Not tonight,” Dalish called. She was almost immediately hushed by Rocky and Stitches, and Skinner glared at her. Skinner glared a lot, so that was nothing new, but not usually at Dalish.

“What’s up?” the Iron Bull asked.

Krem shook his head. “Just a farewell party. No work talk here, right, Chief?”

“Right.” But he was still suspicious. Krem had a good poker face … but not quite good enough. Flissa’s was better, as she had been a spy for a long time. The Iron Bull turned his head to ask his _kadan_ , but she was gone, halfway through the crowd.

Cole had appeared next to him, though, in that freaky way he had. “Some things it’s important not to say,” he intoned solemnly.

“Didn’t think not saying was your strong suit.”

“It isn’t, The Iron Bull. But … I’m learning.” The kid glanced across the room at his bard lady-friend. “I’m learning that sometimes it’s what you don’t say, or how you don’t say it, or the way you say it, that matters. It’s very difficult to understand when to use which one.”

The Iron Bull frowned, trying to follow the kid’s convoluted sentence structure. Coming out the end, he nodded. “It is. But you’re coming along.”

“Am I?” Cole looked pleased. “Thank you.”

“Where are you off to, after this?”

“Lizette and I will travel. She will make music that helps people, and I will learn how.”

The Iron Bull wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what kind of music Cole would make. But he wasn’t about to crush the kid’s optimism. “You do that. I’m sure it’ll be good for you.”

“I’m coming back to see you, The Iron Bull.”

“I hope so,” the Iron Bull told him, and was surprised to find that he meant it.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Ren hurried away from the Iron Bull, knowing he could read her face like an open book. An open children’s book, she sometimes thought. And she didn’t want him to guess what she had in mind for tonight. For once, she wanted him truly surprised, to give back to him some of the happiness he had given her. He’d saved her life, more times than she could count, and in multiple ways. She wanted to give him back a gesture that would tell him how much he meant to her.

She laid her hand on Varric’s shoulder, interrupting a long story he was telling about the Champion of Kirkwall. “Is everything ready?”

“Ready as it’ll ever be. You sure you want me to do this, Rusty?”

“What else is the use of being friends with the Viscount of Kirkwall?”

He frowned at her. “I was really thinking my sharp wit and devastating charm might be the bigger draw than my crown.”

Ren chuckled. “Well, those, too. They’re the icing on the crowny cake.”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Sera. Seriously, I’ve got this.”

“Thank you.” She hesitated, then said, “Were you serious about the house in Kirkwall?”

“Never been more serious about anything in my life. With Hawke off on the high seas, ne’er to return again, I need something to liven up my days. I love Aveline, but she’s too literal for everyday conversation, and Bran—Bran needs the stick removed before he turns into one. Come save me from boredom, Rusty.”

“Not anytime soon, mind you, but I think there’ll come a time when I need a place to go to ground.”

Varric’s eyes sharpened, and she was reminded how little he missed of what went on around him. “You’ll be careful?”

“Always. Well …” She nodded ruefully at her empty sleeve. “Maybe not always, but I didn’t have a bodyguard when I got handsy with a magical elven artifact.”

“You both take care of each other, and come to Kirkwall if you ever need anything.”

“We will,” she promised. She squeezed his shoulder and moved past him to a dark corner where two men were leaning dangerously close to one another. “Is this a private party?”

One of the men leaned back, his teeth flashing white against his dark skin as he smiled at her. “If anyone else had interrupted at this most interesting moment, I would have some choice words for them.”

“I just wanted to make sure you were being nice to my brother.” Ren spoke to Dorian, but her eyes were on Cadoc.

“Your older brother,” he reminded her.

“That doesn’t mean you don’t need someone to look out for you.”

He smiled. “Same to you.”

“I’m good. Trust me.”

Cadoc looked over her shoulder at the Iron Bull, and the assembled Chargers. “You look like you are, at that. You’re very lucky, sister.”

“I know I am.” She frowned slightly, looking at him. “What will you do now?”

“Damned if I know. Go home, I suppose. Father will have to give me something to do if I’m underfoot.”

“He’s going to Val Royeaux. You’ll have the place to yourself.” Ren was staggered by a sudden wave of homesickness. How she missed that estate, and the cliffs she used to climb down to the sea. But she had new cliffs, and a new sea, now, a real home on the Storm Coast. “You know, you’re welcome to come visit us,” she told her brother.

He blinked in surprise. “Thank you. I might just do that.”

“I hope you will.”

“And I? Am I welcome, too?” Dorian asked, getting to his feet and putting his hands gently on her shoulders.

“You know you are. And here you are running away to Tevinter instead,” she scolded him, blinking back the sting of tears.

“I’ll come back.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“I’m going to hold you to that, you know.”

“I hope you do.” She read in the depths of his dark eyes his concern for his own future. The politics of Tevinter were harsh and unforgiving, for all that they lay concealed beneath silk robes and glasses of spiced wine, and Dorian was going to be on the wrong side of them. Then he smiled. “But tonight is not for gloomy thoughts of the future. Tonight is for celebrating. And it looks as though we are about to get started.” He turned her around.

Near the Chargers’ benches, a table had been cleared, and Varric had climbed on top of it. Standing there, he commanded the room with his easy charm and abundant chest hair. Ren had to smile. The Inquisition had brought her all these people she loved so, and she was glad to have them here tonight.

“Ladies and gentlemen, and those of you who are neither one, we are assembled here tonight not just to get drunk—“ He was interrupted by a chorus of boos, and, laughing, waved them down. “Not just to get drunk, but to fulfill a lifelong dream of mine.”

“You’re finally going to write a decent story, perhaps about a dashing man from Tevinter,” Dorian called.

“Please. I could write that in my sleep. No, no, this is a far more rare occurrence—a chance to let two people stand in front of you all and make soppy love-sick fools of themselves.”

Someone shouted, “That’s every night,” to general laughter.

Varric waved for silence again, and called, “Will the Iron Bull and the Inquisitor come forward, please?”

Ren made her way through the crowd to the side of her Ashkaari. He was looking down at her with a bemused expression on his face. “This what I think it is, _kadan_?”

“Yes. Surprised?” she asked, feeling optimistic.

He chuckled. “Well, it wasn’t as transparent as the time the Chargers tried to surprise me with a dragon’s skull for my birthday, but …”

“You knew.”

“I had an idea.”

Ren nodded, having expected as much. “Are you—are you glad about it?”

“What do you think?” And he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off her feet, kissing her with fervor.

The kiss was interrupted by a loud “ahem” from Varric, and the Iron Bull put her down.

“Since they got the most eloquent dwarf in Thedas to officiate at this thing, I’ve prepared a few words—“ Varric broke off, grinning, at the chorus of boos and hisses that garnered, holding his hands up for silence once more after he’d let the chaos go on as long as he thought was entertaining. “Seriously, though—I’m going to let them speak. It’s their night, after all. Rusty?”

Ren cleared her throat, suddenly nervous. She wished she had practiced what she was going to say more. It had sounded good in the mirror this afternoon, but now, in the midst of all these people … But there was nothing for it but to jump in and say what needed to be said. “ _Kadan_ , I … I never knew there could be someone so thoughtful, so intelligent, so sure of himself and so sure of me. Since the day we met, there’s never been a moment that I didn’t know you were behind me, believing in me.” Truth be told, there had been one or two, but those weren’t what counted right now. “Everything I’ve achieved, everything I’ve become, is because you were there, supporting me and saving my life and swinging a really big damn sword on my behalf.” She ignored the chuckles that got, her eyes on Ashkaari’s face, growing surer of herself as she saw what her words meant to him. “And I can think of nothing I want more than to spend the rest of my life at your side—in the battleground, in bed, and in any other place life takes us.”

The Iron Bull reached for her hand, bringing it to his lips, kissing her knuckles. “ _Kadan_ , when I met you I didn’t know who I was. I thought it had to be black or white, one thing or another. You taught me that I could be who I believed was right, that I didn’t have to let anyone else tell me how to live my life or how to be a good man. If I am that, it’s because of you. And I intend to make the choice to be that man, your man, every day for the rest of my life.”

Varric cleared his throat, the room gone very quiet. “Well, then, by the power vested in me by the city-state of Kirkwall—however reluctantly—I now pronounce you bound to one another, in whatever state of union or wedlock you choose to consider yourselves.”

Everyone laughed at that—everyone except Ren and the Iron Bull, who were kissing again, and showed no signs of wanting to stop.


	30. Careful

The plan had never been made, officially. There had been nods, and brief words exchanged, but they all knew what they had to do, and where they were going to go. As the Iron Bull and Morvoren hiked the icy paths across what remained of Haven, he thought this was probably the best choice. It was hard for him to imagine Solas thinking they would come back here. To the best of his knowledge, Solas hadn’t seen Haven since they had left it so hastily during the battle against Corypheus and the Red Templars; he probably didn’t know how much of it remained.

And not much did. The camp was destroyed, bits of canvas blowing across what remained of the paths, pieces of metal sticking treacherously up out of the snow, ready to trip the unwary. The Chantry still stood, at least part of it. The roof had caved in along the right hand side, and the wall there was beginning to crumble. The doors hung ajar as if wrenched apart by giant hands. Possibly they had been, the Iron Bull reflected, thinking of Corypheus’s dragon. Morvoren slipped between them. He had a tighter squeeze, but he made it, scraping one of his horns in the process.

The Inquisition had been disbanded six months ago, and a lot had happened since. Cullen had managed to find places for the vast majority of the Inquisition’s soldiers and staff. The task had been made easier for him by the disappearance of many of the elves shortly after the Council ended. Elven servants across Thedas had disappeared, as well. Whatever Solas was planning, the elves were learning about it. Fortunately, Sera hadn’t gone with them. She and the Iron Bull had been in touch once or twice—he intended to use her Friends to help build up a defense against whatever Solas had planned. Never a particular fan of Solas’s, Sera was glad to help.

Cullen remained at Skyhold with those who were still at loose ends. Josephine and Fergus Cousland had set a date for their wedding, and Morvoren and the Iron Bull had been invited to join in the festivities. Josephine's family would be in attendance as well. Presumably Josephine intended to continue managing her family's businesses from Highever, but the Iron Bull had wonder how long she could manage to juggle business affairs in two different countries. She had done amazing work with the Inquisition, however, so he imagined she could manage if anyone could.

Dorian had returned to Tevinter. There was some concern about his safety—in addition to the deadliness of Tevinter politics, the Qunari, denied the juicy plums of the Southern countries, were launching new attacks in the north, against the Imperium. It hadn’t been prepared for the new onslaught, and the Qunari were advancing steadily. The Iron Bull worried—if Tevinter couldn’t stop them, they would be rolling over the borders into Nevarra, or the Free Marches, or Antiva … or all three. It would take a united Thedas to stop them, and Thedas was far from united. Morvoren had a sending crystal that Dorian used to keep in contact with her, and that eased her mind about her friend’s well-being, but the Iron Bull believed one day the messages would stop coming, and his partner would feel the need to go to Tevinter to save, or avenge, her friend, whichever was called for.

Also far in the north, rumors swirled that all was not well in the Grey Warden bastion in the Anderfels. Blackwall had hinted as much to Morvoren before he left Orlais. The Iron Bull hoped whatever the trouble was, their former companion was finding peace.

Vivienne was leading a strong subset of the mages into new Circles, defying the College of Enchanters. If those two factions could be successfully played against each other, they could become a powerful center of turmoil, keeping southern Thedas just enough off-balance to allow for the Qunari invasion to succeed.

They hadn’t heard from Cole since the Council ended and he had left with his bard. Wherever he was, the Iron Bull hoped the weird spirit kid was finding ways to help people, and growing as a person. He would never have imagined he would come to feel such an interest in or affection for what was essentially a demon, but he found he missed the kid a lot more than he would have expected to.

Varric was back in Kirkwall, sending a stream of letters complaining about everything from the stuffiness of the nobility to the way the crown made a dent in his hair. Lucas Hawke was still somewhere on the high seas enjoying a life of piracy, and Varric without both Hawke and Morvoren was a lonely man. He never said whether he had reconciled with his Bianca after her betrayal of him, and Morvoren didn’t ask. The Iron Bull believed Varric enjoyed a certain amount of personal unhappiness, and that his current state of discontent was more to do with his duties as Viscount keeping him from writing his stories than anything else. Kirkwall was thriving, though, which surprised the Iron Bull a great deal and impressed him even more. He’d always wondered if there was more to Varric than met the eye.

Krem was de facto running the Chargers now, although the Iron Bull still held the reins publicly, and kept his hand in as much as he could, trying to hide the work he was doing on behalf of the coalition that officially didn’t exist. Krem and Flissa made a good team—she had the requisite knowledge of both spycraft and the nobility, and Krem knew the Chargers, inside and out. The Iron Bull hated to admit it, but his lieutenant was damn close to being a better manager than he was.

Morvoren’s father was still in Val Royeaux with her sister Demelza, and her brother Cadoc had returned to their family home in the Free Marches. Cadoc was taking advantage of their father’s absence to learn the details of the family businesses, according to his letters. It made his _kadan_ happy to be reconciled with her brother, and she and the Iron Bull had made it plain to Cadoc that whatever they could do to help him find a path in life through their connections, they were happy to do.

And now here they were, footsteps muffled by the snow as they made their way through Haven’s abandoned Chantry. The inner door that led down into the cellars was still intact, but it swung open easily, and silently, at a touch. Someone was keeping it oiled. The Iron Bull was impressed by Cassandra’s attention to detail.

Then at the bottom of the stairs he saw a small red-headed figure and revised his impression—it was Harding who was on top of things. Because of course she was.

“Are we late?” Morvoren asked.

“No. We were just getting ready to get started.” Harding preceded them down the chilly hallway.

Morvoren looked around at the stone walls. “You know, this was the first thing I saw after the Conclave, these walls.”

Another redhead awaited them in the door of a cell. Divine Victoria smiled at Morvoren’s reminiscence. “Only fitting that we should use it today for another new beginning. We can only hope it will prosper as the Inquisition did under your guidance, my friend.”

“No flattery, please,” Morvoren said dryly. “You already have me here.”

Leliana chuckled, stepping aside to let them enter.

Cassandra was there, leaning over a table, frowning down at a map of Thedas spread out in front of her. She looked up as they came in. “Good. You were able to get away.”

“We didn’t have half the full calendar you did,” Morvoren pointed out. Cassandra was serving on the Exalted Council and overseeing the rebuilding of the Seekers.

She shrugged. “I like to stay busy. It helps me not to think.”

“You know it isn’t your fault,” Leliana told her for the millionth time.

“Isn’t it? I should have had the sense to know that an elven apostate who was neither city nor Dalish was no one we wanted near the Inquisition.”

“If you hadn’t had him here, I would have died,” Morvoren pointed out.

“True.” Cassandra conceded the point, as she did every time the discussion came up, but it was clear she would have liked to have argued further.

The Iron Bull glanced at Leliana. “No news?” 

She shook her head. “My agents have found nothing. As we know, with the eluvians, he could be anywhere. You?”

“No luck.”

“The Inquisition’s army has been officially disbanded,” Harding said. “The soldiers and spies are scattered across Thedas. Many of them are still loyal to us. I’ve hinted to a select few that we may have jobs for them in the future.”

“Good work.” Leliana nodded approvingly. 

Cassandra frowned. “But we have no standing army to face an attack, and no formal alliances to band together with.”

“Whatever Solas is planning, I doubt a standing army would help—and we’ll have alliances aplenty once he attacks, I imagine.”

“That is an optimistic view of a very opportunistic set of countries,” Leliana said. “I wouldn’t count on any such thing occurring.”

The Iron Bull agreed. “Instead of preparing for the Qunari invasion, Nevarra and Antiva are already fighting over who’s going to get the spoils of Tevinter once it falls.”

Morvoren waved a hand impatiently. “Still, we can’t do anything about that now. We’d be laughed out of the room if we took this to any of the heads of state—“

Harding interrupted to add, “And whoever Solas has in those rooms would then know all about whatever plans we’d revealed.”

“No one is arguing that point,” Leliana assured them both. “Just trying to catalog our strengths, and there are painfully few. Most of which Solas knows all about. He knows who we are, how we work …”

“He doesn’t know everyone,” Morvoren said grimly.

“No,” Cassandra agreed. “He spent the majority of his time in the atrium. He may have had spies, but he won’t know everyone who worked with the Inquisition.”

“And we can get allies from outside the Inquisition,” the Iron Bull said. “As long as we’re careful.”

Leliana nodded. “We have to be. We have to stop whatever he plans to do.”

“We will. By any means necessary,” Morvoren vowed.

“Very well,” Leliana said. “I will keep a handle on the political situation. My network of spies keeps me well informed.”

“I’ll keep in touch with the former members of the Inquisition that seem most useful.”

“And a few friends to boot, I bet.” The Iron Bull grinned at her, watching her blush. Sera and Harding weren’t a couple he would have considered, but apparently they were adorable together, according to his sources.

“I will continue rebuilding the Seekers. That force, at least, will be ready for us when we need it.”

“Little as you want to hear it, your contacts in Nevarra could be very useful to us,” Leliana pointed out. Cassandra scowled, but didn’t disagree.

“And we’ll keep our ears to the ground, waiting for Solas to reveal himself. In the meantime, the Iron Bull here is studying everything he can get his hands on about ancient elven history and eluvians … and—“ Morvoren looked down at her empty sleeve. “And I’ll be in shape to defeat him when the time comes.”

“It is not very much,” Leliana said softly, looking down at the map. “Not against an unknown enemy who will attack at a time we cannot predict and in a way that will no doubt be difficult to react to.”

“It’s what we have,” Morvoren said. “It was enough to heal the Breach and keep Corypheus from destroying the world—it will be enough against Solas. It has to be.”

The rest of them were silent, encouraged by her forcefulness and her firm belief, but not convinced. Neither was she, the Iron Bull recognized from her tone, but Morvoren was doing what she did—walking into a fight believing she could win. She had never failed to win so far. There was no reason to think she wouldn’t win now. Or so he told himself.


	31. A Dragon's Call

The mountain air was chill and sharp, but in the arms of her Ashkaari Ren was completely warm. They lay together in front of a fire, watching the stars high above them. They would be back at Skyhold tomorrow, finishing up the last of their responsibilities to the Inquisition that had been.

Ren thought she should probably be more sad about that than she was … but she had tried to leave so many times before, this felt tedious, more than anything. It was largely for Cullen’s benefit, and for the benefit of those few workers and soldiers and scouts still remaining, that she was doing it at all. And, of course, she still wouldn’t truly leave, even once she rode out of Skyhold without looking back.

What to do with the fortress had been the biggest question. It couldn’t be gifted to either Orlais or Ferelden without tipping the scales toward one nation or the other, and Ren had not had any intention of contributing to that particular squabble. The Inquisition could not maintain enough of a force to hold it, not and disband properly.

In the end, it was Seanna Dennet who had saved the day. Her father’s horses had flourished so well at Skyhold—a surprise to him, since he hadn’t expected the thinner mountain air or the somewhat limited range to suit them—that she wanted to open a branch of his training facility in Skyhold. Ren was all too delighted to oblige, especially when Seanna added that she intended to use the keep as an inn so that potential horse buyers could come and stay. Cullen had been moved to offer to remain as well, to help maintain the keep and its security. While no formal announcement had been made, the blushes on both his face and Seanna’s when they brought the proposal to Ren indicated to her that they would be making a match of it sooner rather than later.

Seanna was young for Cullen, Ren thought, gazing at the sparks flying from the fire up into the sky, but he needed that—someone who wasn’t jaded or weary, someone who still had hope in the future and joy in her heart. She wished them both well.

Of course, with Cullen in charge of Skyhold, it couldn’t be used as a base of operations for their more secret group, but it couldn’t have been anyway, since Solas knew the place so well. On the other hand, with Cullen in residence, perhaps Solas would be induced to think Skyhold was still an active site of work against him and send his spies there. A discreet word in Cullen’s ear told him to be wary of elves. He had accepted the warning on its face, and Ren hadn’t told him anything further.

And then, soon, soon, soon, Ren and Ashkaari would be free to go home to the Storm Coast, free to run the Chargers and live their lives … until someday called upon to go against Solas. Without knowing exactly when that day would be, Ren intended to take Solas’s advice—enjoy every minute of the time until she was needed again.

She rolled over in Ashkaari’s arms and looked up at him.

“What is it, _kadan_?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He bent to kiss her, slowly, one hand coming up to lay flat against her cheek. Ren lifted her hand, too, finding the string of his eyepatch under her fingers. She sat up, breaking the kiss.

“Ashkaari … can I see it?”

“What, this? You sure you want to?”

She took a deep breath. She had never asked—it wasn’t important to him, so it had never seemed important to her, but now … “Yes. I’m sure.”  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The Iron Bull looked deep into Morvoren’s eyes, making certain she knew what she was asking. He kept the site of the missing eye clean, naturally, but it was still a mess. But he thought he knew why this was coming up now. Gently, he said, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

She swallowed hard. This was difficult for her, he could see, and he didn’t want to push her, but this was a barrier they needed to break. She couldn’t keep hiding the stump from him forever. At last she nodded. “Deal.”

“Okay.” Carefully he disentangled the strings and lifted the eye-patch off over his head. It had been strange to him at first, that there was no sensation of light when he took it off, but now he was used to the continued blackness and the strange cool rush of air over the site when the patch was gone.

Morvoren leaned forward, lifting her fingers, resting them on his cheekbone just under the bottom ridge of the scar tissue. “That must have hurt.”

He barked a laugh at the understatement. “Remember, I’m the Iron-fucking-Bull. Nothing hurts me.”

She smiled, acknowledging the hyperbole. “Does it still hurt?”

“Phantom pain?” He knew she still experienced that, caught her squeezing the empty air where her left arm should be, as though that would ease the pain there. “Not really. Aches sometimes, mostly when the weather changes.”

“Did all the bones heal? They must have shattered pretty badly.”

“Yeah. We found a hedge mage near town. He’d heard what happened, came out of hiding to help. Had a pretty good touch.” The Iron Bull grinned at the memory. 

“Seriously? You and the mage, after you’d had a blow to the head that destroyed your eye?”

He shrugged. “When better?”

Morvoren laughed. “I suppose.” She sat back on her heels, watching as he put the patch back. “Do you prefer it that way?”

“Easier for everyone. Besides, it’s dashing.”

“It is that.” She leaned forward and kissed him again, long and lingering, and he could tell she was half hoping he would forget about their bargain.

But he wasn’t that easy, not even in her hands. He pushed her gently back and nodded at the empty sleeve. “You ready?”

“No. But … I don’t think I ever would be.”

“You want me to help?”

She shook her head. “I think … I think that would make it worse.”

Slowly she unbuttoned her shirt, and he let her, knowing she still felt she needed to practice everyday tasks with one hand. She was doing remarkably well at it, but she compared herself to what she had been able to do before and felt that she was trailing far behind where she should be. He tried to convince her otherwise—but not too hard. She was stubborn, his _kadan_ , and did not appreciate being pushed; and holding herself to her old standards gave her something to work toward. He didn’t want to get in the way of that, having seen what she could accomplish when she had a goal in mind.

Shrugging her shirt off, she reached for the buckle on the leather cap that covered the stump. The Iron Bull had suggested a harness to match his, and she had been intrigued by the idea, but wasn’t quite ready to get whimsical. Not yet.

With the cap half off, she stopped, squeezing her eyes closed. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“What if you find me disgusting?”

“Never in a thousand ages. Hey.” He took her chin in his hand, waiting until she opened her eyes. “Never,” he repeated firmly.

She nodded, slowly. Without taking her eyes off his, she moved the cap away from the stump.

The Iron Bull looked it over. Stitches had done a very good job overlapping the skin, and the scarring was really quite minimal considering. And it had healed well. Lifting the stump gently, he kissed it.

Morvoren gasped, as if she had been holding her breath, and he could see tears slipping out from underneath her closed eyelids.

Keeping his hand cupped around the stump, he kissed her lips. “Morvoren. _Kadan_. Look at me.” When she opened her eyes, he said, “You are as sexy to me today as you were the first time I saw you, covered in blood in the middle of battle.”

She chuckled, her voice wavering a bit. “Most women wouldn’t find that a compliment.”

“Which is why I’m here with you. Want to go kill a dragon?”

“Right now?”

He shook his head. “No. Not right now.” To make his intentions for the current moment clear, he ran his tongue along the line of her collarbone.

“Oh. Shouldn’t I …” She made a gesture with the cap.

“No. Leave it off. I’ll let it alone if you want, but … leave it off.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want me to take off the patch?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Come here.” He pulled her against him, kissing her, showing her how she made his blood heat in his veins. Her breastband fell on top of her shirt, and he took her bare breasts in his hands, massaging them. The nipples had hardened with the first bite of the air. Now he covered each with his mouth in turn, rolling his tongue around them, feeling the change in Morvoren’s breathing at the sensation.

His hands moved down and down, working the fastenings on her pants, shoving them and her smallclothes off her hips, practically lifting her out of them. Her boots with those damnable laces were already off, thankfully. He didn’t think he could have borne to stop and deal with them, not with his heart pounding and his blood racing through his veins. 

She was already wet, heated and ready for his touch. She moaned as he made contact, clinging to him, her head against his shoulder. In the part of his mind that was not consumed by his need for her, he was relieved that she had come to such full arousal with her stump exposed. It was the first time since their bonding ceremony, since her injury, really, that she had truly let herself go. He could feel it in the thrust of her hips against his palm, in the desperate clutch of her fingers on his shoulders, in the little panting breaths she gave.

Then her hand moved, releasing his shoulder and sliding over his chest, stopping to trace a scar here and there. She knew them all by now. Her fingers delved inside his waistband, finding him, so hard and aching for her touch. Her fingers were so deft, so nimble, her grip so firm, that soon it was he panting and thrusting himself against her grip. The Iron Bull tumbled over onto his back, heedless of the bare ground beneath him. Wriggling out of his pants, he pulled her on top of him, letting her guide him deep into the heat he craved. 

Morvoren cried out in pleasure as she slid down on him. The sight of her taking her pleasure, heedless of the exposure of her missing arm, filled him with a joy that mingled with his arousal and sent him shooting over the edge shortly after she had achieved her peak.

They lay together in front of the fire, the night air cooling their bodies. Tonight, alone with her. Tomorrow, with friends at Skyhold. Shortly after, home to their family on the Storm Coast. It wasn’t the Qun, the loss of which still bothered him from time to time—but it was infinitely richer in many ways that the Qun had never offered.

From somewhere in the distance, he heard a dragon's call, and he smiled. That would be a task for another day.


End file.
